She touches me on the lips, a single finger. A caress. I am silent. She looks at me with wet eyes, mascara running, stick-stained lips crinkled from hurt. I look at her eyes, green tainted the brown of our collective sadness, and apply all sorts of terrible metaphors to them which she accepts gracefully, a tear. Her cheeks glisten. My hands tremble and I bite my tongue, words fail to suffice. She lifts a fold of her skirt to dry her face, blush transferring onto the black satin. A shared sad smile. I touch her hair, put my skin to it, feel the innumerable strands against my face. I am torn content. She drops her eyes, looks away. I step away, study my hands, their minuscule hairs and dimples and cracks and nails nervously chewed. She sniffs, looks up at me afraid. I cannot meet them. My stomach betrays, twisting with terror. My lashes shade my irises. I am hidden, invincible. Her clothing dampens her. I am skin escaping tight cotton bonds. Tears for no reason but their symathetic beauty. Let the glands express the pain I refuse to admit. I am untouchable.