seven hundred and thirty days

If I saw him again
for a moment I would still
ears pounding
No sense would enough consume the
words in his eyes, the memory of his mouth,
his skin
In an instant I would dare to accept
I would reach, and the seconds between here and there would ache
But just when my fingertips were
a spark from his, it would silence.
Heart on fire, I would step back and let
the door close.
Then I would twirl away.

I hope.