You are leaning toward me

in a friendly, formal sort of a way,

for a hug.

It's just the end.  The end of dinner.  The end of the movie.  I am on the couch.  You were on the chair.

But now, it's the doorway

And my

hand is on your back as you say "Bye now".  And I

tumble into Oblivion, my palm

buzzing with the imprint of the glorious muscled cords of

your

low back.

All that is man under my

hand

for a slice of time.

I can't speak.  I stand dumb & empty, like a doll

motionless & placid even though her

hand is on fire.

I hope that you don't notice.

Once I am outside the door, the cool summer night air in my throat,

the blood rushes back into my face

& I am staring at my

hand.

It's as if it's stained,

my fabric soaked by your bravery, your wit, your remote will.

I want to shake it off, leave it at the wrist on the doorstep, stiff & twitching on the rough rug below:

Give you the color of my hand, & leave forever.