Clam hands,
and,
I'm drawing you closer,
not like any French girl-
If I'd ever met one before,
she would have looked just like you.

Her feet would have
pointed away
from me at all times,
her lips would never cease to part.

She would speak French when you couldn't,
but you could still move your lips
in the same type of way
and it felt so good.

Her hands would touch me
in a certain type of way-
eyes hardened, all wandering hands.
She'd tell me stories with the way they touched me.

Her mother had gone to jail
and her father didn't give a shit.

She'd never kiss me with her eyes closed.
My hands would be so sweaty
by the time we were done
from her constant clutch.

I'd touch her hands
and I'd feel pleasure.
I'd look into her eyes
and see her heart.

"He touched me when I was seven. Ever since then I've lost my sense of innocence, my naivete, sometimes I look at you and I see him, but I feel love."

I met her at age fifteen
when she grabbed my hands to get my attention
to tell me I dropped something- I can't remember-
and my attention has since
been no where else.