The collector is aware of everything they do, it is their aim to infatuate you. Their eyes move over you, slowly bringing you into their harmonic tune. They want you to play, to chase your tongue over their mountains and their caves.
They want you to push them into the sea. Your mouth filled with the endless hydration of everything you want to be, tied and gagged to their infinity.
Do you want more?
I am full.
I can not be bewitched.
I am a collector of things that do not exist.
I like their skin, their giggles remind me of summer days, when all I could do was play and fall into dunes made of an essence that only they can create.
I touch them once more, before I go.
The collector takes me home.
I leave my shedded skin over their clothes and wait for them to realize that I am a tomb full of ghosts, they can not collect. They take my skin and place it on a shelf.
It fades away before they remember my smell.