And you chew on my hand,
skin and bone,
like a mangy dog
still believing
in one last caress.
You chew on my hand,
thirsty for touch,
for a point of focus,
for the image that loops
like a tired mirror:
you chewing on my hand.
My hand that strokes your mouth,
even though
nevertheless
the gesture seems to come
from a place older than gesture,
a place where the body learns
to ask without asking.
And you chew,
as if the salt of skin
were the only language
you still understand.
And I let you.
I let you because the floor also yields,
because the floor also knows
there are falls that are contact,
and contacts that are
a form of survival.
You chew on my hand
as if trying to remember
what it means to be touched,
even though the whole world
insists otherwise.
And I, nevertheless,
extend the hand again,
as if offering a map
to someone who reads
only with their teeth.
