There was a season where all I could think of was pressing my cheek to your thigh. 

You would let me flail there, fish-like, and think about the way this is slightly like talking? Maybe like touching? And your arms would slop at their sides and tell my hands to settle down, and I would look up from myself and burst. Spread my fingers and toes to tear, and you would patch me up like a thing so helpless. So afraid am I of strength. 

So afraid am I of you, 

when you were more feather off a crow. More magic than ass.