So many beautiful legs get swiped

oh, god, I bet her name is not Dahlia, I am sorry, but the mercenery stare begets the predatory in another, I wish that she had not wondered what it would be like to live with me, I wish that she had not looked at my legs when we first met for coffee, her hand flirting with my knee, for I can see in her a dignified humility, an uncertainty at her value, a pained devaluation of herself, and how much she needs oh merely comfort, a hand to walk her out the door, arms to embrace her quietness, so messed with and so befouled that she cannot bear the touch of another, but thinks each touch a transaction like those she has known where she stares at ceiling and thinks of syllabi while entered by another's cock and tongue, and he cannot look her in the eye, for if he did, he might be met by such a look of recognition, he would be shamed and curdle up within his sperm, and, yes, she must have nice legs, that is, I think I've seen her in a dress, but didn't notice, I was so watching the pain flicker on her face, well, it is always like this, some of us are drawn by desire and find its enchantments take us back to human realms, where we are called to be more than we are, and others of us are drawn by desire and finds its enchantments withdraw us to inhuman realms where we make of others and ourselves, a commercial, an advertisement, a predatory groan, though some say that it is that we are called to love everywhere, in everyone, and see in the appeals to flesh, the human I, so torn