“i need to feel something,” she says,
treading on my chest in high heels.
“i don’t know how to explain it to you.”
she looks down at me, a body away
from my face, but only sees the floor.
there’s nothing wrong with stepping on linoleum.
all she is looking at is a path of tiles that only know the sound of footsteps,
not the way they feel.
there is no regard here.
tiles have no mouths with which to speak,
just cold, forced understanding.