There are strings glued to your eyes. The flesh on your hands is feverish. Your eyes move with the burden of all the things that you’ve seen, and they, like cubs to a mother, hold on to you. My skin burns with your touch. Every patch of scorched skin is my body’s way of remembering you. Your body is a book of rules you and I must follow. A fleeting look is multitude of thoughts. I see the naked men and women that dance in that glance of yours. I can see your ribs moving along the rhythm. And suddenly you seem so small. There’s one more body growing inside your body. Men and women dance, their limbs tied to strings. Your hands guide the blood that flows white through flesh, the page, your hands guide the word. The other body comes out every time your hand touches mine, and with that, the whole of humanity. Sometimes we touch only with this body, visible to the eye, full of intent. We look at it and wonder. Is this the kind of love we feel when two elements meet?