Encounter

He assumed that mind might equal matter;
his palms were too long and his hands
too wide to grasp
just how difficult it is
to make a thought move
without touching it.

It is obvious that he sat, waiting
for the right moment,
But after thirty-seven days of wanting,
as she sat, sipping coffee, across from him,
breathing in her henna, he paused

he imagined the roughness of her bottom lip,
and its fullness

He told her the sharp, humorous details
of every girl he had ever kissed;
he never mentioned the feeling.

He touched her only three times,
perhaps thrilling at the contact,
and tried to remember if he had ever felt the
imperfection of her skin.

He waited until it was too late
to realise that there's always friction:
to make the thought move you must push it with
more than just a fingertip.

I do not know where he went
when he left me. I am still waiting
for this thought to grow wings.