Every morning on the ride to work
I’d drive, listening to your jokes…
always laughing outwardly
while behind my dark sunglasses
tears would catch along the rim.
Occasionally I’d look down at your hand
as it reached for another cigarette…
wishing it would take a course towards me.
Sometimes the urge would get so overwhelming
I’d grab your hand, bringing it to my lips…
and in a very sensual gesture
that was intent on intervening on nothingness,
I’d kiss the inside of your palm
rubbing your fingers against my cheek.
You’d whine, saying something stupid
and impatient, as if I was interfering in your hands plans
to do something I never really understood your attraction to.

copyright © 2004 sara coslett