I was sitting on a bench on the high street, more thinking than looking, when you saw me and slowed your steps.
Later you stood by the window while I reclined on the sofa, neither of us speaking because we had too much to say.
And that night, with you at my back and your arm thrown negligently around my torso, you whispered, "Roll over," and I asked, "Why?" but did it anyway so you could close the distance between us and feel whole. My chest broke open then, and the air felt cold inside me; you touched my exposed heart and oh! It hurt, that unnatural contact. But my heart still beats, even with your fingerprints on it.