since you told me what you
think about death,
the smell of apples,
and god

i want your
unevenly trimmed nails to brush
the back of my neck
as you scream secrets
without words

i want you to read me
understand without thinking
we could move together;

if i were strong, and
if i could show you,
you would see that
i pretend a gentle rhythm
possess a rough soul

*i don't know yet what you hide