intimacy is a chameleon turned alien, turned drone

intimacy isn’t a fixed point on a map. it’s a chameleon, adapting to the light we cast on it, to the spaces we allow it to inhabit. but what happens when the colors change faster than we can understand them?

i used to think intimacy represented the actions before and during the course of interaction. sexual. hands pulling cloth, cloth pulling hands, hands touching hands touching me touching you. but intimacy is more than the mechanics of connection. it’s the space between a breath and a sigh, the moments after—the way your name lingers on my tongue, or doesn’t.

intimacy is like a chameleon.

intimacy is like a chameleon,
you are like a chameleon—
shifting colors to match your surroundings.
what does that make me?
the environment, i guess—
the walls you press against,
the space you inhabit
when it’s convenient to blend in.
maybe that’s the trick of it:
i shape myself to fit you,
to make you comfortable,
and i don’t realize until later
that i’ve disappeared, too.