The old saying says
you can't know what a person feels
until you've walked in their shoes,
and maybe not even
then.
But what if you climb inside them,
pull their skin tight
around
my head and shoulders
stare out through her eyes,
breathe the air she
breathes,
touch what she touches
and what would I feel like to her if she touches me.
And as I felt before in the diner
when I ached to crawl across the table
and climb inside her,
I feel the same here,
in the midst of her
world,
as she cuts up what we are to consume,
her long fingers touching
what we are to ingest
like a Holy Communion,
this sacred ritual
that will
bring us to some other reality,
if not salvation,
then salivating lust that resembles love,
or perhaps merely the want of it,
this place, this
ceremony, this holy place.
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