Contact feels like touching a dangerous, complex machine. The vulnerability of reaching for what screams danger even without a warning sign means I keep a distance.
I’ll draw a yellow line on the ground for your sake and for mine. Is it the machine’s fault for the potential we have to ruin each other? One faulty movement for flesh and steel to bind.
Perhaps the lack or warnings means I musn’t be warned. Perhaps my severed fingers were never severed.
I can only hold you once you’re still.
Once the power has left you and your lights have faded out.
Forgive me, for my hands must only reach once you’re gone.