Over cups of coffee and between flaws of life
you reached for my hand in the café.
We didn’t say much, just the needed remarks,
an exchange of dull information.
Then your eyes told me more than a phone call would do;
a lonely, troubled soul traveling.
I would have made love to you there and then.
What kept me from doing so, was conformation.
When emptied the cups, going back to our lives
you forgot it of course, as I should do too.
But the touch of your hand I shall never forget.
In my next life I’ll be non conformist for you.
A word to try out!