She knew him, not by his formal suit and tie,
but by the shyness of his first kiss;
the contours of his face, the brush of his lips.
He knew her, not by the lustre of her eyes,
the pink of her lovely summer dress
but by a tension in the touch of flesh on flesh.
There was no name for what they’d miss.
Each time it was the same,
and they knew nothing else but this.
Nor did they care to ask what came
between each breath, each touch, each kiss.
They sensed, but did not feel, their shame.
In their fantasies, there was no screen.
In the darkness, nothing came between.
There was this, and only this.
'Lovers' by Rene Magritte