Wistful fingers
Tickle the dark hairs
Below the shirt sleeve.
Brush the unknown.
Pondering so much, in one small movement.

Emboldened,
They roam the contours
Of your flesh;
Wondering,
Enjoying.

You signify permission
With your stillness, but
I cannot forget.

It cannot be brushed away so simply
I am not allowed
Even with your assent,
To pretend.

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I can think some portions of the image,
But the words don't exist,
This fear that can't be said.

Strange,
How the thought can freeze the body,
And not the body the thought.
And any communication describes nothing.

I can say some things that I think,
But others make me mute.
This barrier in my head,
Even I can't cross.

It is like painting a face a single shade of pink.
Like drawin...

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