Discrete

He finds me every week

Not to touch, but to observe.

But that's enough; more than enough.

I see his thoughts, even if I can't read his mind.

He won't act, but he thinks.

He wonders about truths and lies,

and I don't trust him for a second.

We're cautious now, like and unlike before.

Still every week I see him.

The brief seconds our eyes meet speak more than our mouths ever could.

I teeter on the edge of tolerance,

which, he knows now, is no place for passion.

This time he's careful – for his own sake.

He knows an extra word or two would strip us of this somehow-remaining tie.

Still, I can feel his wary curiosity.

If ever it strays from sight to sound, I may be led to violence.

My blood pressure rises whenever we're around.