Sometimes I wish I could love you or could begin to love you or really just sit across from you at some café table just to get a whiff of what’s in your bones. I wouldn’t love you for real. I don’t know how to do that. And I don’t think you’d love me for real either. But I’d get close to you, the kind of close right before you and a stranger begin to dance, when they put a hand on the small of your back and draw you in. We could learn to exist in the space between us, letting the dizzying claustrophobia fill our lungs.
A work in progress, like me.