I met you this morning.
We cross oceans with eyes that meet briefly;
we share quiet communion as your hand strokes my back,
and I rest in the crook of your arm.

You walk me through the crisp college air to my door,
you lend me your gloves.
Our feet crack like whips on the sandstone paving;
the moon smiles, she understands.

My fingers hover round yours;
your black coat brushes my leg.
We don’t-quite-kiss goodnight,
and I watch you float away –

You are thinking of equations and toast,
of quiz shows and coffee and
Lewis Carroll, of gravity, and of
what to buy your girlfriend for Christmas.

I am thinking of the moon, of your coat and gloves,
Of your hand on my back and eyes meeting.