and the rest of the day felt a bit like
walking slowly in a dreamscape
from which I had not yet woken
perhaps, had I paced long enough
finding my way back to your chest
I would have heard your heavy heart
drumming guiltily against my cheek
I would have smelled the febrile heat
of your blood through your shirt
I might have felt your fingers tighten
on the back of my arm, something like
awaiting, and more like a warning
and you might not have told me how
I had run to it too quickly, for what
other word could there possibly be
for this
