It's been two months now, and you haven't touched me.
Not really, anyhow.
I place my hands on your shoulders while you wash-up
and you stiffen, the clank of plates
sudddenly loud as a heartbeat heard through a cold stethoscope.
It's as if
we need to keep to different rooms
or something terrible will happen
like young Jennifer
and old Jennifer
in Back To The Future 2.
I know you still love me -
I've seen the way you look
at the pics of us together on the dining room shelf -
but ever since, you know,
what happened with Bill
it's just been different,
distant.
I sometimes want to say,
'Let's visit him,' but I'm scared
I'll only make you worse.
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