You are an affectionate hand

touching my girlish waist.

An arm lying, carefree,

over my plush velvet thigh.

A pair of pink lips

resting on the side of my neck.

I see your blue eyes.

Compassion.

The way you hold those girls.

You hold them tight,

your hand against their soft hair.

They are glad to be held;

they don't like to talk.

I see past the sculpted abs and arms,

into the sapphire eyes that reveal

the beatific disturbance lying there,

waiting to be discovered

by a girl who is blind.

I waited in line for three hours

and when I shook your hand, I wanted more.

You reached out to embrace me

in your radiating yellow shirt,

But I realized it too late;

I was already walking away.

So next time, rest one pale hand

on top of my knee, and drape the other

across my shoulder.

Let's talk

of your experiences I never knew.

We can stare into the camera,

and when it's all over, all I'll have left

is an autographed photo.