Your hands fit everywhere
in my hair, on my ass, up my dress,
except in mine.
Our knuckles scraped against each other,
knowing we would only hurt,
begging us to let go.
Instead we held each other in kisses
and stole each other’s drinks.
You left videos on my phone
and took selfies that you would never post.
I rested my head on your shoulder
claiming you in a city I would never return to.
You write to me sporadically with those same hands.
I always respond.
Maybe your hands grew or softened or hardened
morphed enough so that I can finally pull you towards me
and gather the courage to say “Be mine.”