This silk is eager for damp skin. It clings greedily to the peaks of your topography, obscuring, like fog, only the depressions. I am a basin filled with fluid, eager to capsize, to spill out over this tile floor like so much vanilla bath water. At your heat, I boil. I billow out from beneath cream and sugar taffeta with the whispered sigh of softly hissing steam and in tendrils, my tempestuous mist and moisture form settles lightly into your crevices.