There is something
other than a man
about him
eyes bright, lips
locked tight
his fingers
are not that
much longer
than mine
they too know
chemicals
the touch of glass
between your bare
skin and acid
I tap words
through the sheets
with my finger-
tips
dot dot dot
dot dot
dot
and through the
haze of sleep
he smiles
his mouth titling
towards mine
we don't call it
kissing
it is the pleasent purple
colour of neutral
litmus paper
it is our data
spreading
from the corners
of our mouths
into my cheeks
my body betrays me
and colours them
red
but it is more
than a flush
of a fantasy
made present
to be able
to touch
this man who hides
(and lies)
to know
this light touch
of a man in
a mask
which he allows
only me to
see through