He plays with the ring on his fourth finger,
As though he’s not (fully) used to its prescence yet. His rolled r’s and deep o’s Slash, through the distance between us His eyes fixed on the page And mine on him.
My gaze trails down to his pen
Poised between delicate, But strong hands And my ears hear not what my eyes see:
A word, Lingering
On the tip of his tongue As his gaze catches mine.
Read through it again he says
My cheeks turn feverish Red. Hot.
The words roll off my tongue One by one
His eyes are closed. Hands clasped.
Ears acute to every Breath and pause Stutter and cadence Rise and fall
I stop He smiles.
He dares not ask for it once more After all: 17 and 24…
Never meant to be I’m the stigma to his society.