If I were to write about it, I would begin
at the moment you sat down on my couch. You had
the gentleness of the moon in your gaze, as we 
talked about the rain that never came. I could
write a small poem about the space between 
our knees that never touched, a space we held quietly
into the night. I could even begin to confess 
that I wanted so badly to touch your hair but
didn’t, because my hands are already cold and you are 
an astonishment, because love is a terrible 
fire and what if I love you forever. My darling,
I am writing this poem to tell you that there are evenings
when I sit down on this couch of mine, alone, I could 
still feel your eyes on me, soft, like the rain.