but the thing is, there has to be.

my hands hold eachother tightly, pressed between my legs. i have to hold them back, lest i break the rules. i am not allowed to touch you. they told me last thursday. "no physical contact." you're dying, they said, you're contagious. on the phone, i just knew they were lying. but when i saw you, i could feel it, i could smell it on your breath. it smelled like the ocean. you make plans for when you're better, you have no idea what's going on. "i can't wait to hold you again," the words leak through your teeth as you smile. antibiotics, they told you, to be taken twice daily. but when you weren't looking they told me the truth: methadone. it slowly kills the body without pain. opiates, their defense, he'll be happy this way. i let you run your fingers over my jeans, it doesn't count if our skin doesn't actually touch, right? you want to kiss me, so i place saran wrap between our lips. your mouth is still soft, but it's lost its warmth. i sit next to you in the car, your skin is pale next to mine. i've got your ring on my finger. "you have to give it back once you get one of your own," you laugh. i try my best to smile. i don't think i'll ever take it off once you're gone.