i am thinking of you
and your arm hair
well, technically
not your arm hair
but the idea of your arm hair.

I am thinking of the length
of your arms. the girth of your wrists,
of what they mean
in context.

under raincoat
in the middle of central park
on a thursday
long before we met
before your hair had time
to settle down
from its 80s height.

I am thinking of you
and your arm hair
not so technically, more
conceptually – the philosophy behind
every hair
up to your armpits

I am thinking of the color
of your arms. the shade of your flesh,
the hue that reveals
what you might mean
in context

under clean cotton fabric
cool and in mad love with one summer sun
that seems to stay
for you
warm and kind
and bitter sweet
because it knows
that youth must fade.

I am thinking of your arms
reaching toward the sun
on a perfect day
before we met
before you knew anything
about me.