I wonder

I want to know:    
      When you run your fingers through your hair,
do you think of me? Can you smell the
walls sheathed in smoke, or
the perfume that bites my neck?
      When your fingers gently catch the knots of your curls, can you
feel the couch beneath you, beneath us?
Tangled up together like the strands of hair just behind your ears.
      And when you tug the waves on the crown of your head, can you
feel the sheets beneath your chest, the heat between our lips?
      When your fingertips massage your scalp, opening and closing
as they work their way back and forth, forehead to neck, ear to ear,
can you feel the couch beneath you,
beneath us?
      And if you close your eyes and think about
the thick, course texture against the pads of your palm,
can you hear the TV going, just beyond the coffee table
where your feet rest?
                  - what are we watching?