Casual

In the post office line,

I watched his hand rest on her back

while the clerk processed

their package.

Just resting there.

No thought behind it.

The space between them

so small

it barely existed.

She didn't move away.

He didn't have to ask first.

The assumption of contact.

The fact of touch

without negotiation,

without the long space

before,

the uncertainty,

the careful distance

that I've learned

to maintain.

I counted the months

on the drive home.

Lost count

around six.

Six months of my own hands

in my own pockets,

my own shoulders

holding themselves,

my own skin

starving in a quiet room.

Six months of watching

other people's casual

gestures—

the brush of an arm,

the small claim of a hand

on someone's spine—

and knowing that kind

of thoughtlessness

about touch,

that confidence

in being held,

was something

I'd forgotten

how to want

without shame.

But I do want it.

Want it like hunger.

Want it like the only real thing.