Things I know

I know you will look at me,
skin-bared, pearled in the last streams of light
filtering through the riverbank’s trees

I know you will lay an arm
across the back of the bench that looks more
like it belongs in a park than on your porch

and I know that as soon as I lean into your body,
you will bring your arm down and around me
and for thirty seconds- give or take-
you will trace your fingers down the skin of my arm,
and then in a languid crawl, back up,
so that what you’ve stroked tingles with remembrance
and what you’ve yet to reach with expectation

I know that you will pull back your arm
when you retake the pipe, and somewhere in between
breathing and speaking

I know that I will smooth my palm
against the soft jersey of your t-shirt
as I stretch my own arm over you

and I know that you will lean into me too

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