I would never describe her hair to you,
   never talk about the half-length tinting,
   never even mention how she leaned on me,
   not think about how deep and shiningly brown it became at the back of her neck.

   I would never describe the sounds she made,
   never talk about her breathing,
   never even mention the light cloth rustling,
   not think about our infrequent witticisms that pulled experience out of time.

   I would never mention her legs,
   never talk about her curled up stretch,
   never even mention the feel,
   never talk about how she'd shaved two nights before and her hair was half bristle and half fur, entirely delightful.

   I could talk about the sleeveless shirt she wore,
   and the printed dress also,
   but neither are important,
   and I never think about either.

   I could talk about the movie we were watching,
   about how we had to clean the VCR,
   about how the tape was bad, 
   and about the title, but there were a solid dozen of them, over time.

   I could mention that we were on my best friend's bed,
   but that would seem to skew 
   the perspective that I had to offer -
   that is, sideways, not down.   

   You see, she's my best friend's girl, and I would never