A kingdom, intricate
A pattern, special
This is what he thinks,
his hand resting lightly on the back of her knee,
the cooling sweat, nearly evaporated into the air
between them.
He likes the smell of incense,
candles, and burnished metal;
scent arises when molecules of a substance enter the body,
but she is lighter than incense.
It tickles him to think of her as a solemn mystery.
In the bathroom mirror, he can locate no mark,
no telltale sign, none of the livery she gave him.
His skin must have drunk it up: this is what he thinks.
By slow degrees she is integrating herself into him–
they share, in some measure, the same space.
This is what he thinks, and then he smiles
Her smile.
