I was inspired to write this after reading one of the short stories in the love story anthology My Mistress’s Sparrow is Dead – What We Talk About When We Talk About Love. It described how two of the characters “bump knees” as a sign of affection and well… let’s just say it felt familiar.
Fingers are the touch cliche;
No one ever talks about knees.
No one ever talks about the subtle intimacy,
The meeting of the weathered seams of angled denim,
The almost-touching of skin.
No one ever talks about the covert rendezvous,
The convergence reasoned to be accidental
Even when neither pulls away after.
Cut off that current through fingertips —
Who cares for the brief zap of fingers-on-arms
When one can feel the soft warm pulse of
That semi-public platonic-pretense,
That liaison of joints?
No, this isn’t passion;
It’s merely one’s over-thought feeling of some
Domesticised loving gesture,
The unproven proof of only-needing-one
Despite the continuous chattering floating casually overhead.
No one ever talks about knees,
Us least of all.
But I yearn for that under-table denim affair,
And the lack of your recoil.