Speak slowly to me
as you touch my lips...

Sometimes in the quiet
slither of evening...

White tile
white room...

I'll wear this round my neck because
you gave it to me...

Streaming across my face like
whispering tassels of wind...

Silence
as I stand under the spray...

I would like to take your serration
and run it over the tender part...

Envelop me like a current
as the sunlight falls to pieces...

Just tell me
who you want me to be...

I ran from you,
a skittish yearling...

I ache
for...

Your lips
pressed softly...