It began as accident, a moment
beside you on a bench, our forearms touching.
(You didn’t pull away; neither did I.)
As if our skins were porous and your soul
were liquid, you poured into me.
Like crystal,
my voice took on a new note, full of you,
and from your voice I knew you likewise full,
our conversation vibrant as the chime
of champagne glasses touched in celebration,
a fragile music tuned by borrowed contents,
each narrow flute enriched by what it holds
the song provisional, the precise note
inspiring thirst, but altered by a sip.

This poem first appeared in The Formalist.