words were dangerous around him.
because they were so few and they meant so much.

he placed his open palm above my knee but below the hem of my dress, let it live there for a moment, feeling the shape of my thigh through my thick, black stockings.

i like you in tights, he said.

oh god. time. awareness. the awareness of time.
i took a quick, sharp inhale.

how is it possible he knew me before i wore little more than tights with skirts or dresses or ill-fitting sweaters--anything oversized to cover a ballooning body in the throws of a disease? how is it possible?

six years.

seven.
eight.
four.
years and years and years.
two months.

time. countless breaths marking time.

and he was there before. but not during. not really. and so much has changed and passed and morphed. and for each of the worlds i've traveled through, he's traversed his own.

and we know a little.
but not so much, not enough

and we don't use our words terribly well. we talk in the space of silence. willing nearly impossible interpretations.

and there's been so much time. but not enough, really. not enough.

but he knows me. words or not. six years or not. seven, eight, four, years and years and years, two months, or not. he knows me.

more time.