Submitted by megan on Sun, 01/27/2008 - 01:57
We could meet in a coffee shop. Not talking about sex, but the way my hand whips the air into froth, the languor of your eyelids when you laugh. It might be there, when you shift and your cleavage snakes past my line of sight. When I cross my legs and squeeze, when your hair brushes my forearm as your bend over. I catch it in my fingers, smile when you look up.