Not the hem of his garment.
Not the fleeting brush of fabric,
peripheral, unnoticed…
Not the hem of his garment.
His wrist.
His solid, haired, warm right wrist
and this, my hand,
my [in]elegant white left hand,
holding.
Seconds, skin to skin,
eyes closed only to feel.
— So. You’ll never wash it again!
Yes I will. I didn’t take anything…
— No photograph? No autograph?
I didn’t need to.
Not a piece of him.
Not taking —
giving. Giving
energy/information/spirit, call it…
call it love. Yes, that.
Focused on the interface
of skins. Unafraid.
And if I received anything —
a blossom of spirit,
not a blessing of sweat.
So yes, I’ll wash.
Anyway, he doesn’t wash off.