Thumbprint Heat

The skin on my arm feels pulled,

stretched thin across the bone.

Like something held too long, then nulled,

a body left alone.

Across the cafe, glass clinked small.

His thumb, a slow, soft, brush

against her hand. I saw it all.

A quick, blood-warming flush

left a mark, a pale red press,

just above her knuckle's ridge.

My own forearms, a tight distress,

a body on a distant bridge.