It's December on Marlborough Street. The potbellied
brownstones hunker and belch steam as we pass by
in silence. It's too cold to talk, and what
would we say? We hold mittenless hands instead,

admire the icicles. I wish I could believe
we're sharing something, some wordless moment,
but I need proof. I need this hand in mine,
words of affirmation, signs of longing and desire.

And I don't want only a few haphazard gestures
here and there, empty of thought or intent.
I want every change in your expressive eyes
to reflect me. I want you to see me no matter

where you look. Even when you're not holding
my hand, I want your fingers to rest in that shape.
I want you to recognize and love that sloping curve
and love even the spaces where I'm not

because they're the places that I've been.