Peripheral

The party is loud and the beer is too warm.

I’m leaning my back on the sink.

You’re across the kitchen, away from the storm,

sharing a joke and a drink.

You reach out a hand, it’s a habit, I know,

to brush a stray thread from his arm.

A soft, easy gesture, a rhythmic, slow show

of keeping him safe from the harm.

That hand used to find the small of my back

when the room got too crowded to breathe.

Now I just watch from the edge of the rack

and wait for the signal to leave.