Skin never touched…
But the shadow pressed…
Skin never touched…
But the shadow pressed…
The hallway held our breath too long
A glance became a folded song
Your sleeve against my coat, a wrong
That felt more right than right belongs
The space between the rail and wall
Where nothing and yet all things call
A meeting that did not occur
But in the silence, we were… more.
Skin never touched…
But the shadow pressed…
A hunger dressed in Sunday best…
A guest that never came to rest…
Skin never touched…
But the heat confessed…
In the space our bodies guessed…
The teacup’s steam drew on the air
A map of territories where
My hand might land, if I should dare
To cross the linen table there
Your sentence left unfinished, hung
Between the quiet and the tongue
A bridge we neither built nor crossed
The purest, and the dearest cost.
Skin never touched…
But the shadow pressed…
A hunger dressed in Sunday best…
A guest that never came to rest…
Skin never touched…
But the heat confessed…
In the space our bodies guessed…
What if the door had closed…
Just one second slow…
What if the rain had stayed…
What if we had… obeyed…
SKIN NEVER TOUCHED…
BUT THE SHADOW PRESSED…
A HUNGER DRESSED IN SUNDAY BEST…
A GUEST… THAT NEVER… CAME TO REST…
Skin never touched…
But the heat confessed…
(In the space we loved the best…)
…skin never… touched…
