I reserved a spot on my wall that I stare at when I think about you.

[bigwave111]

I was never looking at the pages
when I picked up that book.
My eyes were clouded
my head aching
as the words kept shifting in and out of focus.
I was blinding myself to learn
the braille of your back
through that sweatshirt,
through that shirt,
on that skin
as my hand slid up to your neck,
nestling under your hair,
sliding my thumb
and forefinger
down.
From the back of each ear
to that spot
it made your head tilt forward
and those papers you were staring through
tilt back.
My blind eyes,
my breaking heart,
my inquisitive hands.
I could tell,
could read through the slight lean
of your head to my hand
your eyes would shut
and you would give up worrying
about what was implied
or what it meant to enjoy
my touch
and what more
it couldn't mean to you
with the turning of that clock,
ten hours fast.