never the reality of it
not the way it moves or twitches or yawns or blinks or longs to hold hands or scratch backs
maybe the way it moans and arches, maybe
not the way it sings or paints or makes coffee or plays with it's niece or hugs its mother
the way it stays quiet and still when discontent, maybe
the way it makes money, maybe
the way every motion is to please you, maybe