Coverings.

When we sat
Human to chrysalid back
You've got the knack
Worries gone
Like that.
Back to back.

I know that I am hewn and angular- you said this weekend, god, you are angular. Your back looks strange, it does, you're right. It's just the way my skin is, the way my bones are, the way I am. I am not built for comfort; I should be an athelete, but this seems to have flown me by. A shotputter, a swimmer or suchlike. My bones are huge- they jut out, the muscles apparent and veins too under my skin. Messily built, I would say. I hate it reminding me that it's there, all there, all exposed and open to attack at any moment. Then there's you- you hate your fat for the same reason. You said someone spat on you in a club for being fat. I don't think so, I don't think that that is ever the way; you're beautiful. Not spat upon, never that. It's vulnerability. I find it appealing, but you'd rather be strong and indefatigable. I am coming to terms with my sinews and bones; I will never be delicate, but I can settle for angular. You'd be surprised how easily I can be a comfort, though I am knobbly and oddly stacked. Clavicles and hipbone and your delicate wrists and ankles, beautiful eyes, smoothed skin.

You said in the night that I'd huddle back to back with you or snatch all of the covers for myself. I did get cold easily, I was febrile and hot-cold, and you were warm and comforting, and I wanted to be of some comfort to you as well. I probably was not. The last thing you want at the moment is probably my cold-hot feverish back, with its sinews and knobbles, poking at you when you sleep. Your back is smooth and soft and solid. I know that I twitch and shift and shake in my sleep. After you said you'd kept my secrets I laughed, but I wish now that I'd leant over and embraced you to show you that yes, you did, you did, and I trust you for it.

You put a forearm under my head- I worried I was crushing it. Your arm's a delicate thing, thin wrists and cream-nutbrown, though it isn't at all like mine, fraught with freckles and veins and wrist joints, almost the same width all the way, like a column. Yours is tapered to the wrist, I could wrap my finger and thumb round it, perfect skin without a hint of its inner workings. Mine are written all over, there's fat here, bone here, muscle here, vein here, and I can barely link thumb and finger round them. I thought I'd squeeze your arm to death with my massive head. I didn't, and I marvelled at how strong it was- strong, beautiful, vulnerable, yourself in a limb, comfortable and not worrying like I am to lie near or on or... everyone thinks they'll break me, or they'll break themselves on me.