Sometimes I get a chill, but those fade to your touch

A cold hand holds my heart while music
plays ahead of me; a dish of leftovers sits
and beckons - warm air redolent of slow cooking,
multicolored cushions and low tables
covered in plates of food and bottles of drink
conversation on six degrees of separation
where I am the divide, I am the import,
yet I feel as though I may belong
through an arm thrown casually behind
my shoulders. My mind empties and I am
a conduit of emptied drawers for some
might-have-been, equipment or items
purchased in solitude for a perhaps
tomorrow. I could see this as a farce, a facade
of could-have-been anyone. For a spiraling
moment, I do. But I am not this faceless
and I am the one who benefits from
these idle conversations, the brightly
colored booths, who has the pleasure of
watching you laugh; the way you always
press your tongue to your upper teeth,
a slight gasp beforehand, hearty and full, or
the sinewy movement against me and
quirk of your lip when you're just about ready,
and so I float back to myself, to that arm
about my waist so long kept in these
situations without a body to hold.
I will be the one with a name, a face,
lending action to your self-made assurances
that it wouldn't always end this way
with cobwebs in the corners of drawers
an empty seat on the couch and I
will be the fulfillment of those promises.