This is how it feels.
It feels like
you are nudging me,
pushing subtly
on a hotpan pepper
not quite cooked
and always,
I am terracotta red
swirling into
white.
It feels like,
you are touching me,
cells whirling -
twisting vapors again
like old-hooked pike
and always,
I am led
though kissing nil
but night.
It feels like,
you are tempting me,
feintly waiting
like un-lined paper
parchment smooth
but always,
I am ink and splatter
squirming into
spite.