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And last night we sat together on the ledge
next to the castle
or the otherwise unreal world.
You touched my arm and said,
"Let's not be anything more than friends."
I looked away and faked apathy-
"We barely know each other."
You were hurt, as if I should have argued.
I held your arm, caressing your wrist
while you sat rigid, looking to the unreal world.
I looked my way and sighed.
"I'm just tired of getting fucked with."
You turned back and we held each other's arms, angry
but empathetic.
You felt so smooth and real and I loved you.

Today in the hallway I almost grabbed your wrist
to tell you I dreamt about you last night.
But afterall,
it was just that-a dream-
and I can't just go molesting your wrists now that
I know what they feel like.