Legs like rivers dammed up at the knees, then entering a bottleneck half way through the hips. Driftwood cluttering the belly pushing hard against the riverbanks. The throat a narrow ford, jammed at the jaw.

This tell-tale body, treacherous to the touch, spilling beans so tightly sealed.

He left me squeezed out like a toothpaste tube. Smoothing over knots of flesh he found a story that included you. He spoke of tension and of holding on too tight, of muscles storing knowledge and of the sleepless hours of each night.

He stroked my hands. He brought me tea. He had me sleep.

There was gentleness not passion in his touch. No man’s hands before had read me to myself like this. He felt the memory of pain and soaked it up like rain when covering my foundered flesh with a sheet so white, so white.

A silent story, told in touch. A feeling in the gut, like hope.

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