I saw you on the bus

pale hairless fingers

entangling me,

Flipping through the art history

book I wish I

could be.

How would it feel if

I was your book, your

fingers flicking over

My pages like a

tongue, your eyes passing

over me as you

Devoured all the words I

offered, spreading my

legs into a

Fold-out painting of a

naked beauty.

Do you think about

What it would have been

like to be the

Model, to move her fleshy leg

so not to show the coarse

spider-hair and peach fuzz

That kiss the top of her

thighs? Do you wonder if

making the round strokes of

feels the same as when the artist

held them in his palms last night?

Folding up the painting, closing

my legs, your

pale, hairless fingers

pages, bruising my

skin made of words.

Closing the textbook

you glance at me as if

you've seen me before,

Naked; the last I see of

you, your

pale hairless fingers

you step off

the last stair.