The last time you touched me with love was a Saturday, we went to a concert at the Sinclair. The poorly lit concert hall was grimy and stank of beer and groups of bearded flannel wearing Bostonians were rocking out to Springsteen. You stood behind me and held me close; your arms tightly wound around me. I could feel your cheek pressed against mine. I kept rocking back on you and turning to see your face. You didn’t like people pushing and I wanted to make sure you weren’t getting upset. I was always worried about your mood; if you were happy, if you were sad.
I don’t remember if we made love that night. I wish I did.
Blue Bird 