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The air between us
smells like oatmeal
from those pre-sweetened
packets we’d share at work.

Work is cinnamon raisin
and stale coffee,
and I’m there,
even though I’m here
at my computer
in this dawn-dim room.

If I’d just pay attention,
(don’t write about zoom)
I could feel
your skin:
the back of my hand
on your cheek,
my fingertips
on the back of your knee.

If I’d just pay attention,
I could hear your small grunts,
those private celebrations
when you hit “send,”
like the sounds men might make
when they look at an engine.

If I’d just pay attention.