I stretch them out in front of me
like a canvas.
Splash cupped handfuls of lukewarm water.
Running hands down my calves,
and back up to test the length
of hair. Enveloping each with
a thick layer of white soap, to
run the razor upwards, breaking
a track of skin, wash the blade,
again, and again. Take care
around the kneecap, in and
between the shape of muscle,
care behind the ankle.

Moisturizing limbs to a surface,
calm and soft and smooth.
Planning to study dermis and
pigmentation, I get bored at the
mention of melanin and stop. The
indecent flatness of perfection.

Running hands down empty legs.



His hands are always full of me, even when we are not touching.

But me, with stranded hands.

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