The music in my room pulses,
pushing a heavy beat through the soft places in my flesh.

I feel his voice vibrate in my pelvis and a feeling of hunger fills my womb,
that dark, unused cavity between my bones and between my legs.

I imagine myself curling into the empty space,
into my shell, restricted and claustrophobic,
like an uncomfortable situation in an elevator with too many people
where you end up tapping a rhythm on the wood panel
to keep yourself from losing it, but this place is safe.

It is when he touches me there that I feel safest, warmest,
the most alive.

I'm full of water--in my stomach and in my veins--it flows thinly;
and when he touches me,
I feel sanguine and metallic and full of blood.

I am used to the slowness of my pulse.
I spend minutes counting the beats, feeling each time my chest
rises and falls with the effort of my ventricles.
I watch the movement visible on my naked breasts.

When I'm with him,
the speed changes and I count and weigh the differences,
fascinated by the influence.