When I say I want to be tangled up with you, I don’t mean I want to have sex with you. I don’t want to be inside you, (or have you inside me), I just want it to be impossible to tell which of our legs is whose, to lose my sight and breath to your hair, and trace your bones with the rice paper of my fingertips. I want to love you the way I might love a pine tree; all vegetable, no flower. I want to handle your flesh the way I might caress the leaves of a potted plant, testing for life, for proof of breath. I want to feel your diaphragm lift my head as you take in air, to feel the canvas of your skin stretch beneath my palms. I want play you like a piano, like a cello, like a harp, but even more like a video game, because I want you to play me back like GlaDOS, show me that you’re always more alive than I’ll ever be.