If I could write more than words, more than context between both my blending languages I would aspire to write the emotion of blushing cheeks in churning heat. At the softest touch of fuzz, of stomach hollowing for more, of wanting the excess that stands in this feeling. Of knowing there is more to want and to feel, in more and more vulnerable wanting. In that feeling there has never been more want. In wanting to be less timid, in the again and again of brushes, of a tongue that waters, and of lips in flourishing juvenile angst. In a sort of itch, an itch of company that ghosts your skin in a desire to be touched but not just touched, but caressed in a soul quenching, flesh demanding sort of hunger. But this impulse is of heat. Of us as heat churning creatures that desire to be turned on and off as candles. And in that heat, we melt, faster or slower in the presence or absence of another. In wax that can’t be shaped back to who we were. In drops of our bodies that melt and mix in colors, in precise moments, in release of heat and soul specific to who we are.