A NEW CRITICISM OF US

We prowl around in an intricate dance
Fingers hovering over words unsent
Gazes averted looking for things meant
Is this a date or merely friendly lunch?
We sit, barely touching, arms close apart
Moving in a strange familiar rhythm
My soul and brain in eternal schism
Warm skin brushing against my beating heart
I try to discern the ways that you move
And close read your words like a critic would
But your lips remain tight pressed in a smile
And I remain the lawyer with no proof
What we have: an indeterminate “this”

I know this. This means nothing. This just is.