You became this; light touches
on Sunday mornings, your eyes opening to a possibility of
peace.

A sigh, a nudge, then he says your name. Under the covers you reach for him,
gripping tight and holding on.

He’s everything you’d decided bad for you.
But he spoke with simple clarity and it
reverberated in your skull.

His face in the dark, close to you,
but looking away; how you held his hand without thinking.

Clinging to him, touching his thigh; yet he never touched you
back. With every syllable his words, his avoidant eyes,

they bled more violently with affection.

There was never a plan for this; it wasn’t supposed to happen.

A touch, a breath, he kisses your mouth.
You know how it’s going to end.

Urging him to continue speaking, because silence
hurts too much. Declarations

like a warm embrace, softly nursing the broken parts.

Don’t do it. Don’t do it, you think.
Don’t fall in love again.

A confession, a question,
a promise. But you don’t make promises anymore.

It’s unspoken, a pledge your body continually makes
unbeknownst to you.

(Or maybe you know, and you just let it happen.)

Under the covers, you search for his scars. A history
revealed, a life before You, before all of this — as if
something like that were even possible.

Tell me the stories of how you got them,
you beg. Let me touch them with my hands.

A trust, a spark. You think you might love him.

It was never part of the plan, but he revealed himself and you could not look
away.

Momentary vulnerability, shrouded in a drunken haze and, later, regret. You don’t think

he ever meant to do it,
but he did,

and in that moment you were lost.
Perhaps he doesn’t even remember.

With every surrender, he pulls you closer, and you yield
in return.