So it goes...

It’s fitting or
  fucking funny;
        don’t you think?
You slipped that note to me,
    the one about touch,
as your hand
     cupped to shield the
         flame
   as I lit your cigarette—
 sparks leaping
across that slight unbearable
               gap
        between our skin.
And now, I’m the one
      who must remind
    my self
  to keep my hands
     to myself. I must
        remember
 not to run my fingers
    through your hair;
  not to touch the small
        of your back;
    to ignore the cut of
          your dress;
to overlook your raw
            thumbs—
and you stay just
          out of reach…
 Now, my breakfast of
     nicotine and caffeine
  is just an excuse to
 skip on brushing my teeth;
I fall asleep to self-indulgent tokes and
     trite poems about a girl;
  and my future's not so clear.

C’est la vie, no?