When she thinks of love, she thinks of a hand on the back of her knee, a fist knotted in her hair, teeth gripping an ear. It's in the code of her breath, in a furious rush of blood, in a gasp that pops against a neck. It's imprinted. She can't help it; she pours herself into his waiting hands and expects him to keep the whole of her intact there, nothing slipping through tightly clasped fingers. But she's pure liquid this way, melted core and insubstantial longing, sloshing from palm to palm.
He won't hold it. He never does. He can't even.
He parts his hands and she's gone in an instant.
This is not love.
It is a reflection in a fingertip,
a mirror image in parted lips.
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