She traces her finger across my palm, her eyes not on my hands but on me. How does she know where to go?

Line by line. I read you line by line.

I have never been felt like I am felt by you.
What exactly do you call this? I ask

Discovering you, she answers. Unearthing you.

What about my fault lines?

What about your fault lines? She keeps tracing.

Are you avoiding them?

No, she says.

I am not scared of fault lines. I am not scared of a single earthquake originating from you. As long as it's yours, I am the world ready to be shaken to her core.

You're stupid for that.
I am keeping a lot from you.
You won't love me.
You will hurt. Stop unearthing.

She says she knows, on all counts. And I am not to worry, on all counts.

And like this she dismisses my concerns methodologically. And in this way I trust her.

And in this way my trust comes to a head, and I tell her something that she wouldn't have otherwise have known.

I felt you today.

I wish I could be felt by you everyday, she answers.

So I trace my hands on her face, not avoiding anything, trying intentionally to get to the fault line, trying to get an earthquake to start in her.

But nothing shakes.