Near the middle of the room, there
you sit at half-attention, half-
languid as you run a hand through
your hair perfectly tapering down,
down your mountain of a neck, your hand
running down your valley of a shoulder,
looking left, right, and sighing
just a little.
(I see your eyes like cinnamon in the
muted sunlight: they were translucent.)
I run this pen down the page, trying
to form the contours of your face,
the expanse of your chest, breadth
of your shoulders—tell me what have I missed.
What did I see now that was not there before,
why do I wonder, with my hand circling
the rim of this glass full of vodka.
why do I wonder if the mold of your hand
is warm, is fitting in the spaces between
my fingers, if my chin will rest,
perfectly on your collarbone,
your skin pulsing,