Flee

I catch sight of you
standing back,
staring awkwardly.

What questions do
you ask yourself
about what you see?

What do you see?

Every so often
you are touched;
brushed against.

At first you spoke,
drawing attention;
indicating full stop.

Now you withdraw,
pulling away;
creating space.

I am left to wonder
what touch tells you
it isn’t telling me.

Why do you flee?

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