dave steger

Vernal

We were introduced at some dive,
Shook hands and went our separate ways.
Moments later I had a feeling I couldn't shake.
The way she touched my hand,
The sensation of her holding me in her palm,
Made the ice thaw some.
Later I found myself at her house.
When everyone left we talked philosophy in a kitchen with a sticky floor.
The smell of her paint drying lingered in the air.
We drank screwdrivers until the sun began to rise.
Two strangers sharing intimate details,
With brutal honesty,
Freeing the dusty secrets that had piled up over the years and lay so deep under the rug.
We brushed our teeth when there were no more philosophers and no more secrets left.
As I got into her bed I realized what I have always been missing,
But I didn't say word.
The bedroom was a mess, probably much like her.
It didn't matter though.
Cause when she touched me for the first time,
And her hands walked around the skin of my back.
Just as they had hours earlier, making brush strokes on a naked canvas.
Tears came to my eyes.
For I couldn't remember the last time I had been touched.

The door creaked slightly as I left.
The wind was a howling,
The sky was light blue.
Her bedroom was green,
Her sheets as soft as her skin.
The night could have been a figment of one's imagination but I didn't know whose.
I walked the whole way home with sinister little smirk,
Telling all and sundry that winter was finally over.