It's always your words that undress me. Sobriquets, honeyed and multiple-- neck slowed over by narrator's pale parlance. It's always my hands that undress you. Motion diverse, more adept than I expected. My fingers feel separate and strange. Our skin feels so starkly the same. Dialectic crack in monologue, made soft by the hot tongue of discourse. Your open vowels morning-like, balmy. I want you phonetically, fondly. Our languages, various as Babel's. We touch like snakes in love.