hands

Addiction to the pain of your hands on my skin is my definition of happiness. My connection to this emotional discourse is intensified by your eyes and words. Sometimes, dirty is how this feels on my hands pushing against the wall. I trace the bruises, quite hidden reminders of my inclinations with you. We talk in hurried hushed tones indicative of attachment, involvement, and our weakness. If i whisper to you my fervor for apathy does it affect how you know me? Emotional detachment is unattainable, my captivation undeniable. My fear of this rings back as feeling of inadequacy. My silent questions are answered as you touch my face and brush back my hair. This honesty of emotion is often felt like a laceration.