Rooftop

The afternoons are long, your legs are longer. Here on the rooftop. I sit at a wooden table, a chair empty opposite me. You make your way to join. Your butt fills the chair. I breath you in. And know your skin. It’s warm here in the sunlight. Warmer still near you.

I hear a bird chirping, distant sounds of civilized life going on without me. You hold my hands. My palm exposed. Your fingers running from my wrist to finger tip. “Do you feel that?” you ask. Eyes fixed on mine.

This is where I am meant to be, squinting in the afternoon sun, with you.