Your hands
got me thinking
About Love, and
how electric
seeks a circuit:
rubber gloves, wellies
would earth it,
but bare fingers, thumbs –
too complicit.
A moist palm: enough
to spark it,
in darkness
we hear
the voltage cracking,
catch static
popping brightly
between our
woven
interloping digits.
Wary
not to singe a hair, or
sting ourselves with each other’s
fingerprints.
Alone, the current’s dormant;
a horrid weight droning
in my stomach.
That acidic, metallic taste
at the back of my throat
nags.