Cirrus like skeletons in the sky, and the waxing moon like a heart in a cage. Adam lost a rib, and the world flourished in myth: but you and I are not bone, or clay and spit, or padlocked boxes of the sensuous unknown. Standing in your kitchen, chest to chest, palm to palm, we are as much the wind and shadows and moon as we are bloodborne mammals, cold and hot with longing. If I am gentler for your touch, I will later prick myself on my own claws to be sure of my sting; if I am hardened to your grace, I have lost already the key to the padlock on the box. Be soft here with me, and refuse to be mute. I wish for your teeth meeting in my throat, I wish for the hush of your breath against my cheek. Whisper to me all your secrets, breadcrumbs to the place where you hide. Where neither of us is asked to go, we build a garden, and grow.