I could only speak in the sweet ironies of repetition,
So when he said, “Do not touch me, ” I replied:
“Touch me, touch me, touch me, touch me, ” and
After a while again, “touch me”, till he turned
Tail on me and made towards the pool. I would
Have cried out some new and original thought
Had it not eluded me – but I could think only
Of the touching that wasn’t to be – the caress
He would ever forbear to offer. There was a cold
Shrinking inside me. Most parts of me became
Superfluous. I ghosted about the flesh-white
Stalagmites. Bats flew through me. When you
Whisper in the cave, I take your last syllables,
Shape them into the line of my jaw, the curve
Of my breasts, a suggestion of lips and hair –
Come close to embodiment, then fade. Say it
One more time. I’ll try it all again. “Touch me.”

Giles Watson

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/echo-62/