You're out with someone else. They're smart and young;
they've ink on arms and lower back - a dove
drawn by Picasso. Later, they remove
the ribbons from their hair. And then their tongue
is on your shoulder blade; their fingers touch
the space between two ribs, and nestle there.
You wonder for a second if it's fair
and then you kiss them back. It is of such
moments that knowing you're in love is made
because you break the kiss, and stroke their brow
like parents do. And then you wonder how
to do this kindly, then say 'I'm afraid
that this won't do.' They leave. You lie alone
and then call her you hope for on the phone.