When she left the room for days at a time
his first unfinished thought
was of an ache in his fingertips
physical measurement, highly approximate,
a ratio of distance over time multiplied by the shape of her voice,
not impartial observations.
Of the thought of her working
in the garden beneath the oaks
humid air flirting with her skin
Or pausing at an early evening stoplight
right hand paused over the tuning dial
as her mind wanders
Or thought of her drifting off
as his phrasings bounce in hallways
like jingles before a dream.
Remote as the hidden point in space
where their fingertips did not touch
& dared not speak of,
where she did not say, "No, not electric . . ."
nor "Yes, but speak no more of it . . ."
nor ask him to explain
His ache, her awkward secret
& his mouth stuffed with silence
he could not swallow.
27 June 2008