she told me she told me you cannot make someone feel what they cannot feel-- their fingertips brushing through air, molecules darting past the gaps. their mouth dry, putrid from too many sweets the sticky tongue sliding across glossy teeth, the belly groaning. their legs struck by cold, bare and numb, dragging as if made of wood down the beach, no shoes, no crowds, just wet shadows of birds and kneeling down to look at seashells, holding onto beautiful ghosts of former occupants, laying there like broken rosaries.

their eyes heavy, carrying a glance to that part of the room. their shoulders barely touching the wall on the opposite side, draped in thin cotton stuck to the shape of the spine, the lack of light penciling in a deep groove. their eyes which want to meet, they want to contact. their eyelashes which seem to shield them from seeing what must be seen. their head short pieces of hair curling like wires circuits growing out from the brain, like nerves to be touched, signaling sighs to escape, waiting, gurgling in the throat.

their skin bare except for the torso, emerging from a sea of warmth, sheets which will soon bathe limbs hanging loose like a marionette, wanting to be set in motion. their nervousness, their desire, their wanting to be conquered their wanting to be loved their wanting to be satisfied their wanting to be only near you, to be near you to be near you.