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.