I find physical tenderness inside the empty rehearsal studio. I ask the question I kept postponing.

I see you inside the empty rehearsal studio before I prepare my face.

I notice resin and sweat in the air clinging to the silence around us.

I recognize a satin ribbon before I trust your smile.

I remember why I need touch to tell the truth.

I stay as the music starts with the dance you promised me.

I let my voice cross the distance first.

I watch your eyes move toward the mirrored corridor instead of mine.

I recall your forehead resting against mine after midnight.

I hate how tenderness survives the agreement that ends it.

I refuse another beautiful description of physical tenderness.

I feel your silence choose its first casualty.

I fold my fingers around a satin ribbon beneath the table.

I listen as you describe the life around your answer.

I stop translating after I learn that your hand promises what your life cannot.

I feel grief enter before the sentence ends.

I walk to the mirrored corridor with your footsteps behind me.

I hear you ask me not to leave yet.

I look up and find your mouth too near mine.

I let hope rise once, against everything I know.

I reach for you inside the empty rehearsal studio, but your hand promises what your life cannot.