Consumed, the purity of softness, remembering. The memory of touch. The softness of skin. The feather like caressing of flowing fingertips hidden beneath handwritten words. Imprinted. Secretive. Only ever existing upon porcelain delicacy and in its pureness beholding, protecting. Yet, ever so ignorant to the written word of which it is immersed within, only to fall into unconscious sleep. Heavy breathing, hairs erecting, the in breath of undoubted sensibility and longing. Finger tipped words which will be never known and never be spoken. They belong in silence, its keeper.