When we touch I let myself be held,
let my body rest in your warmth, protected.
I show you the most vulnerable part of me,
the one that is small and quiet, soft.
I let you near
the crevices in my bones
the beating drums in my chest
the wreckage of desires I refuse to see for myself.

But when I hold somebody else,
someone I should love the same,
someone I should want to touch in a more intimate way than I want to touch you,
someone who could be a lover,
the feeling is not the same.
I protect. I witness the pliant animal that is her body, safe in my hands,
but it's not the same.

I miss you,
I imagine your arms instead.