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hovered round
your stolidity
and my mischief

breathless waiting
boundless despair

no stone unturned,
so I give in to
perpetual pin-pointing
as I grovel for
that smug twitch
or a sudden touch.

Me growing old,
You going cold.

People died today
somewhere in Italy
and all I could think of
was your hand on my thigh.

may, 2012