I Have Never Touched You

I have never touched you. I have been walking behind you all the time. Playing with your shadow, skipping amidst the projections of your slender limbs against hot asphalt. I have never touched you.
I have never reached you. Scents of you, flowing from your scarf to my nostrils, like tiny flowers carried in the wind. Silky hairs undulate like seaweeds in an ocean of desire, craving, turning their ends to me, little witnesses, standing sharp from your skull, ready to jump at me like an army’s load of spears. They know. I have never reached you.
You have never seen me. Bent and wired for fear you might notice me and run away. Inhuman. A thing. You have never seen me.

But then.
Darkness. The backstreets are like a home. The intimacy of darkness. Corners, smells, and sounds. A home. A womb. The smell of you is everywhere. On them. Your face, on theirs. Like a mask. Their skulls feel just like yours should. Fragile and soft in my hand. All in my hand, the fear, screams. I wish they did not, I wish they stopped, their voices, their ways, treacherous, ungracious, ugly, filthy imitation of you, you, if only, only you could know how much I want you.