Touch for want of time, feeds you deeds so that it yawns before she does. Wake up before she does, not that it is a race. This contention, this demand, this want—all of which that hem you yet disrespect you. Conversant like touch, quiet like time. Her needs knead you. You sigh upon the act. You wait and see what she wakes up for, but you know exactly whom she dreams about.
