today we sit in wooster square under the trees
the urge to touch you inexplicable
an old itch, unconscious
the thin curve of your fingernails
your folded legs
the space of skin above your shirt

later on my bed i cry to Marina
tears not for you, but for the loss of intimacy
broken in the space between,
known by my mind and not my body

confused that the last time saw each other
we were standing in the snow, kissing.

you talk about so many things,
a baby passing by, the lady behind us asking for my

pocket knife over and over again.
you tell her we should hold the fabric

tauter, so it will cut more easily.
i read your steadfastness as rejection.

my body aching from the not-reaching
from the mental disconnect with how easy

it feels to reach out and reach and bridge the distance.
the distance that is infinite, even as you sit

next to me on this green bench.
the disconnect blinding me even as we walk down
the street together and you joke as though you are
angry at me (you swear you are not) pushing
the lowest buttons you can push
making me bleed at my knees

and when i get home i cry for not being able to touch you
for not being able to be held by someone i once loved

until i see the scrapes you have given me
unconsciously, consciously, cut my knees a thousand times

and i think
maybe i just need to tend to myself.

i give myself permission to hate you.

even if it doesn't make sense.
even if you won't understand.