I loved it when you squeezed my arm.
You put your hand through the gap
between my bicep and my heart
and locked it in for no more than a second
but it lasted me the whole night.
You squeezed my arm as if it meant something
and thanked me for a favour,
so I tell you it’s no problem
and wish everyone else was gone
so I could be alone with your ginger hair and glasses
and I could tell you what it meant to me,
but I can’t: it’s not a definition,
it’s a feeling,
and nothing feels as good as your hand,
briefly,
clutching my arm.
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