I would hold you if I could bare the thought of it.
Our limbs balancing precariously across each other’s attachments,
Our vulnerable ways of speaking combing gently together to the sound of distant rain,
The gradual let go of thunder,
The piteous streaks of who we have always been sliding across the TV screen but
I can’t go back to that enveloping fifties attitude just like
You can’t muster the pride to say I’m right.