We don’t touch that often now.
  
I always plan to leave my clothes on but you soon lose interest in the lines of my face;
my eyes; my palms.  
I want to write you a novel on the sound of your laughter.
The touch of your breath against my neck when you are sleeping and I try to ****** the night into staying-
tomorrow we become silent and sinister again.

I am sorry because I make myself ashamed when I should be causing a scene.

I am worse for those hours spent silent in your sheets the way the night is worse for the moon; it’s so much clearer now.
I am worse for the scars on my hands.

I am worse, I am worse.

I am worse.