Saturday Night Flick

Those moments on your couch can be so awkward.
Just so damn awkward.
Where the words get confused and the silence is strange.
Where I know you, or I don't,
Where the hands flutter and flash
Like butterflies before a storm
Caresses that change
The hands that play
The cards that change the hands

So elegantly you lay
So quietly you play
With my delicate tenderness
My softliness
That touchliness
The quivering beats of a steady heart;
A healthy heart
Beating to
This rhythmically choreographed dance of uncertainty

I do not mind
That there is a lack definition
I do not hurt
Being passive
To the fleeting pleasantry;
The ambiguity of such holiness

And yet, when I reach to touch,
When I brush upon the subject
Like a nervous hand to canvas
or the petting of unkempt hair
or the reconciling of our night's cocktail
or the brushing of lips to your others
or

Just a holding hand
Resting so silently on your chest
The quiet pulmonary poetry of our deafness
Where there should be nothing to understand...
That a moment is implicitly unique...
That this moment
Like the others
Is the only moment i truly existed
In your world.
The moment is always
The only time.

Our world so brief
Like that time on your couch
Where the words meant nothing
You still there, meant everything
Like all these moments.