I want you to look at me
a little longer than you meant to.
To lose your place
in whatever you were saying
because I have come into the room.
It is embarrassing,
how little I have been given,
how much I have made of it.
You say my name
and I live on it for days.
Once, your knee touched mine
and neither of us moved.
I have gone back to that moment
so often
I’m afraid I’ve changed it.
You know almost nothing about me.
Still, when you ask a question,
I have to stop myself
from giving you everything.
Sometimes I imagine you remember me
from a life I cannot reach,
that you are only taking your time
because the last time you held me,
you had to let me go.
It is easier to think that
than to wonder
if you have noticed.
And God, I want to be noticed.
I want to wear something
you think about later.
I want your hand at my waist
for some small, unnecessary reason,
then staying
after the reason is gone.
Instead, I ask how you’ve been.
You tell me.
I listen,
trying to hear whether you are happy,
whether you wish I’d come closer,
whether I should move
my knee.