It was you who taught me
that this could not be scary;
that I could touch, and meet with skin
and not the licking flame.
And now that you are cool,
and run over me like water
I am finding rocks smoothen
with each movement that is given.
The edges of me
that were once sharp as knives,
erode into something softer,
and I am clay, pressed guiltily
with your fingerprints.
Fingers with tell-tale wrinkles,
wishing for the current to take them away.
And in my navel
a droplet of water waits,
as I think of soil and sand. And all those gifts
that slip between my fingers
when we part. And I am washed up,
make-up smudged,
to spend weeks emptying
clothing full of sand.