Memories of shadows, words,
and the flash of a TV elsewhere
spouting some nonsense,
which kept its speaker fulfilled.
My sheltering screen of malt whiskey
hid your talking with friends.
I spoke with my hands
you spoke with the others
talking in two conversations.
Their talk was of Whisky,
of hacking and fixing,
it could have been anything else.
I spoke to your skin,
your feminine skin,
smooth and warm as summer afternoons.
I had to explore,
to feel, to adore.
The talk had to stop.