“Your heart is beating!” I tell you.
Your skin, hot and sticky, stutters my caress over the insistent thumping.
“That’s lucky for me then,” you say,
Voice thick with lazy disinterest
As you turn to sleep.
Later, you come to me in silence,
Begging me now to tell you that your heart still beats,
That to touch me is to touch others.
The pulsing remains unspoken between us.
And when you leave I weep.
I see you one more time;
No longer demanding privacy, you face me across the crowd,
Stillness yours at last.
Inside my head I hear a dull, slow pounding.
It tells me you will not be even briefly mine again.
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