don’t
touch me.
not because
i break,
but because
i forget
where i end.
your hand
doesn’t hurt.
but it
shifts
the lines
between skin
and silence.
i want
to be
held,
but not taken.
i want
the warmth
without the aftersound.
when you
touch,
i disappear
into the outline
of your want.
i reach back
not to stop
but to
delay.
to fold
the moment
before it
becomes
mine.
touch me
but only
as question.
never
as name.
—