It hurts when you touch me like that. No, it doesn’t ache or burn or offend or leave me in a physical state of harm. It just hurts when you touch me like that.
Yeah, like that.
It doesn’t hurt when you remove your shirt and I my skirt.
It just hurts in that place where people feel that kind of euphoria. It doesn’t hurt on the outside. So for now I’m waiting for you to be done so the pain will subside.
When you touch me like that I can smell you, your sweat stings my nostrils. It drips from your naked chest onto mine.
When you sweat on me like that I want to shower. I want to throw myself flat onto those ice-cold bodies of water. You know, the ones that sting like needles and continue to ring from the inside out. The ones that pierce you all over. That kind of water.
When you touch me like that, yeah like that.
‘That no particular scandal once can touch.’
With your hands like that. When you touch my skin, my arms, my waist with your fingers.
I can see your eyes. I can feel you looking at me.
‘With eyes wide open; standing, speaking moving,’
It hurts. It hurts when you look at me like that. It hurts when I smell you. It hurts when you touch me like that. And when it hurts, when it hurts and you’re touching me and you smell from that grossly pungent sweat that drips onto me and you’re looking at my stomach and my neck and into my eyes, it hurts.
And when it hurts, I’m not here.
And when you’re thinking that our bodies and souls have made that divine, timeless, beautiful, passionate connection,
I’m not here.
And when you’re thinking those things that I can hear you thinking, it hurts.
That’s when it hurts.
And when it hurts (when you look and touch and smell and think the way you do) I’m with him and not you.
When I’m with him, it doesn’t hurt.
His hands are soft and his scent dances around me.
His scent draws me in so that I can look and touch and think those things.
When I’m with him it doesn’t hurt.
With you it hurts.
That’s when it hurts.