How good we are for each other, walking through a land of silence and darkness. You open doors for me, I answer the phone for you. I play jungle loud. You read with the light on. Beautiful. The curve of your cheekbone, explosive vowels, exact use of cologne. What are you thinking? I ask in a language of touch unique to us. You tap my palm nothing much. At stations we compete senses, see which comes first—light in the tunnel, whiplash down the rail. I kick your shins when we go out for meals. You dab my lips. I finger yours like Braille.
by Paul Farley