He doesn’t know how to touch me, but I’m a traitor to myself. I take his hand every day, place it somewhere on my body, try to teach him geography, but his compass’ North never points to me. It’s not his fault. It’s not mine. There’s just no magnetism. Still, I encourage him to hear, see, smell, taste, feel. We lie on floors, walk on grass, watch sunset and moonrise, try to become the sprawl of mist blanketing each other’s lands, let ourselves be clock hands, ticking our time together, apart. I can’t remember when holding him ever felt like breathing, or being filled to the bursting with him inside me, or collapsing into a beautiful mess: tangle of limbs, lips, neck, tongue, ear, ass, breasts, cock – fierce and greedy with lust. Desperate in the gush of us. This morning his mouth clamped on mine clumsily as he crushed me in arms that wanted to want me, but didn’t… His kiss was an iron clenched fist on my lips. The clank of metal tasted of shame. My body stiffened, then meta morphed, hardening into a cave, the empty shell of me surrounding the pang of an enormous echo that rang and rang until he let me go.