Oh gods, you could have written poetry

about the line of his throat

and the curve of his neck

and the strip of bare skin in between

his hairline and the collar of his shirt

                              I had had to crumple up the urge 

                              to fold my fingers around

                              his delicate, fine-boned wrist

I knew we had to say goodbye 

eventually, but the way his eyes met my

gaze squarely locked me into place

and instead of holding my hand

the way I wanted him to, he merely

tapped my knee (shocking electricity)

and looked at the floor

while he quietly went out the door