How boring of you to become suddenly so dull.

A tree that offers no shade only bright sunlight –

no summer respite for this humid, damp skin.

Why you won’t even play hand-slap or staring games.

Instead you refuse to meet my gaze lest some Episcopal voodoo

should escape and suck you in, make you mine (as if you weren’t already).

Why even when we line in twos for communion, our palms no longer touch.

How I know that you, just as I, must miss that thrill of contact.

The smooth opals of our hands hanging useless at our sides

when once they cleaved together.

So how lonely then our fingers now, why we’ve come undone!

Take that communion on your tongue.

You know tomorrow you will kiss me.

You know tomorrow we’ll need forgiveness.

Tomorrow, the cold war will be over.