Your hand under mine-
your palm carefully laid out on my knee,
so gingerly, so fragile-
the heat that blossoms from it is wonderful.
I don't love you, not yet.
But I love the way your bones feel under my palm,
knitted white
under stretched skin.
And I love your hand, larger than mine,
over my knee, not quite sure whether you want it to stay yet;
not quite sure whether you want to stay yet.

I may love you just yet.