I imagine you without your skin or bones or muscles:
You are only a hollow skeleton of a once-significant being.
Your epidermis, slightly tinted with the melanin of summer
and with a few contusions here and there, sits lifelessly beside
Other abiotic objects of lesser importance.

You disturb me, yet I am intrigued by you no less than the day
your distal phalanges affectionately palpated the folds of my palm.

Metacarpal on metacarpal, deltoid brushing deltoid,
I wasn’t sure where this was going;
Yet just as soon as you developed, you will disintegrate
into nothing more than wasted matter.