The bare equivalent
It was the bare equivalent of love.
A picture of a kiss; a DVD of a hug.
Yet, it was something. So he smiled
As he slowly danced to Ravel.
No one touches. No, not yet. Not just yet.
He can only imagine the drag of a finger
Across the weave of the fabric.
It was a minor price. He had cash.
This, a homeopathic decoction of love.
Barely a shadow of a figure, lacking color.
Lying in the dark, wrapped in a sheet.
He shrugs. More has been spent, for much less.