Skin Memory

The bus was loud, too close,

people breathing stale air.

Then she touched his arm,

a quick, unconscious thing,

like brushing dust away.

My own hand felt heavy

on my thigh, the rough wool

of my trousers a barrier.

I watched the way her fingers

curled, just for a second.

My skin remembers.

It’s not about the heat.

It’s about the simple pressure,

a confirmation

that I am here,

still solid.