I used to think 
the sparks or electricity 
from your crush’s casual 
brush of skin 
was made up, or an exaggeration 
to prove a point. 
 
Then. You held my hand 
at dinner when the family
bowed their heads for prayer, 
and a thrill trilled from my fingers 
up my arm, and you passed 
me the butter dish. 

When I accepted 
the knife, your fingers 
brushed mine, and I’ve never 
been more aware 
of so many distinct 
parts of my hand.