When you wrote last month asking, 'Who touches you now?'  I sat in 
this dusty square for a long time trying to recall and then it came to 
me- moonlight touches me sometimes or this cold hand might.  When I 
touch at the temple or throat or thigh there's a faint memory of heat, 
and the fingers that used to trace impatient shapes across a landscape 
of shy, thirsting bodies. 

But then finally there was no more romance and everyone had the same 
monotonous voice.  Where were you when that happened? 
Once upon a time we ate off the same plate.  We cut each other with the 
same knife.    We were gold in each other's hands.  Proximity was never 
a problem .  Neither was time. 

But goddamn those salty, insistent bodies that carried us.  Who was 
always ravenous? 
Who was always in need? 

Copyright 2001,  Holly Anderson 

Holly Anderson is a writer and photo archivist living in New York City. Her prose books Lily Lou and Sheherezade appear in major library collections including: Museum of Modern Art, Metropolitan Museum of Art, Victoria and Albert Museum, Houghton Rare Books Library at Harvard, Brooklyn Museum and International Center for Photography.