Then: the texture of the skin beneath, and how it adds to things, and the warmth, and the yearning. The way legs are for wrapping around things. And how they can be so long.

The art-jeans are mine, folded up in an old drawer somewhere, with my favorite art-t-shirt, with just the right combination of smeared fingerprints along the hem. The silk polka dots are children of a stranger, it is the silhouette of some skinnyprettygirl's thigh in my visage, not my own, and that hand belongs to no lover of mine, and oh how I would like to break his wrist, to smash them both into atoms, and scream to all in the theatre that my hands are like that too, only more fragile, and I have owned hands like that, worshipped hands like that, prayed both with and for hands like that.



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