She hugged me.

She’s not accustomed to letting air pass by this way,
and she doesn’t notice
that even I notice the difference.
Embracing an old part of herself
that she refuses to let go of,
no perception of love
what so ever.
But I never wish this on any human I know.
Then she grabs at my back,
ripping like my own fear at torn consolations,
“That’s him.” she whispers,
and I look forward ahead
and there he sat waiting,
in uneasiness creating
an anxiety for his own self,
and her belt is imprinting
its buckle into my un-expanding womb,
and she moved, slightly,
so I unheld my breath and inhaled,
and it worries me that she’s female
and so close to my own body,
probably it’s because she told me she can’t show affection
and doesn’t understand that the position
she has me in,
makes me uncomfortable,
but she’s all but predictable,
and paints a placid smile
she has learnt to wear in public,
turns round to watch him,
walks to the car and all she collects,
is the scolding she expected,
for taking too long.

- Arielle John
copyright 2008