for Eléa
<•
feel you my love, between my thumb and forefinger ,
beyond obsession, have rubbed them,
thumb and forefinger tips pebble smooth,
lying there, lying to myself, saying don't know why,
probably the standard ****** busybodies annoying,
no big deal, just the chocolate stuffing of day to day living,
but I know better, I'm home after 23:00, in bed alone,
you love are at a milonga ce soir,
and I, still rubbing them glossy shiny,
unconsciously, subconsciously, consciously, stubbornly
my light, shut off, grab the silky top sheet,
between the same thumb and forefinger,
pull it up, to under the neck,
comfort covering my chilled bare chested unheated heart,
and the rubbing yet, gets stronger, the sheet sensation,
an unforeseen, trigger warning
the sensation, at last, dulling and in the dark,
the fingers worn, body worn, and the worn cold admissions
easy slip out, worn by denial, a sash across the chest-ache,
the fingers instrumental, now more useless from imprecision
I know, I know,
fingers are memorizing touch, memorizing memories,
at the crossroads of two Burgundy country roads intersecting,
because when no one is seeing, no one you want,
that no one won't be joining you later, ya see,
just the normal nite dreams
with that self-same tireless thumb and forefinger,
pull a tissue from the box hid in the second drawer to blot the
wet spots on the pillow, can't be having that,
no one, no,
she wouldn't like that,
and you
nonetheless and all the more,
surprised
cause no one told you,
you didn't know that,
*fingers could weep