Don't touch me, don't gesture, don't even look For I am a torn, tattered, out of print book that has been closed since the end of our time. I am human, I do want to... but I don't dare, so I linger in rhyme. How can I allow somone to open the cover? To skim the pages, to make inferences, to become my second authentic lover? Such thoughts are too intense for me, So I remain content in poetry.