A leafy hand on my arm,
Like you’re neither hanging on nor letting go,
Penetrating eyes that neither see me nor see through me,
simply of me.
You grab the curve at my waist,
Not a reminder.
You simply hold my hand in the least possessive way possible.
That curve blends with your curve,
And you reach deeper towards an inquisitive smirk,
Curving towards the sky.
There isn’t much between my hip and yours,
But in that little bit of air,
I feel a little stick-figure-drawing, tiptoeing
from one side of the scale to the other,
Laughing, contentedly, as he tries to rein it all in.
But there’s no need to rein it in here… no…
Just the allowance of what’s to come.
Jas Tyra (They/Them) is a writer, peer counselor, and social work student in NYC. You can read more of their work for free at jastyrapoetry.substack.com