And we lay, sticky hands and sweaty shoulders
hair tangled by fingers without goals
jumping at the slightest whisper of a stair creak
breaking a kiss at the first inclination.
Slurring words we understand without voicing
(you think I'm beautiful
and I want to hear it again).
Tapering fingers plink out octaves on the piano
hands you want stroking pale thighs and sighing
and there're noises we think only we can hear,
a musty clarity and a single note
Breathing, thick and hot
until a newspaper, ten feet and a world away, shuffles
our half-silence shattered by a well-placed cough.
Reminding us we're old enough to want it but that we're