i am tracing the crease under your eye with one finger. the skin is light and thin, the touch gaze light for tenderness. i did not see this while it was happening. the accumulation of days and nights and moments hollowed out the contours of your cheeks, creased in the lines. it is easier to come this close and feel your skin from this inch away. i cannot yet look into your eyes.

if you let my hands proceed with their inquiry. twenty seven bones in the hand, enough to bend and take around any of your parts and name them shapes. this curving slope a large curl in my hands my thumbs in a furrow, was this a hard day? the fan of a shoulderblade the muscle lines splayed fingers running from your arm what have they held together?

if you let, may i continue to ask your body questions? there are things i don't know how to ask with words. like where does it hurt? if time and people and events are a place. and what is happening with you?

can you tell i want to touch you? everything about you is so distant having to say words makes you even farther.