It’s the soft caress along the calf,
the purposeful touch of the arm.
It’s the leaning in during a story,
and the well placed laugh of the joke.
It’s the brightness in eyes at the sight,
and the jumpy excitement of presence.
It’s listening to words, that don’t mean a thing,
it’s watching actions that scream in meaning.
It’s feeling pain,
and being told there are not weapons,
but the knife buries where the beat once lived.
It’s asking to ignore,
what years of instinct say.
It’s listening to denials,
that never gain purchase.
This is clear to see.
It’s watching you fall in love, in lust,
with someone who isn’t me.