It’s in the way your finger traces the contours behind my knee

In your whispered observations amidst a crowd

In the purposeful squeeze of my feet at the climax of a long day 

In the gentle brush of my back as you pass me by

In the crook of your arm around the nape of my neck

In your fluttering heartbeat under my fingertips

In the scratchiness of your shirt against my skin

In the taste of the batter you let me lick off your finger.

Unavoidable in the quiet and crescendoing over time,

It floods me whole, gushing to surge over you.

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