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.