Nothing will happen
Amy Acre

We’ll both go to our own homes tonight.
But first we’ll occupy space in a room
where the terrain is other people;
it’s swampy with their trodden wants.
Where we stand although      the
       gaps      in      our      conversation
are big enough to fill with our bodies.
Where the lines on my palm
are a poem your neck can’t read.
Where you use the word ‘ontological’
and I hear nothing else and your lips
always look like you’ve just licked them.
Where I get the wrong one of us drunk
and refuse my own advances and slip out
while regret is smoking on the pavement.
I go home with gmail, twitter, facebook
but take your face with me: febrile, damp,
surprised, as if you’d just been running.