You stare a lot, said the

Nude to the Little Man.

Safely clothed in your

anonymity

you seem to prefer

watching to taking part.

Why don’t you touch me?

I like looking from a

distance, the Little Man

replied. I’m an observer.

You like being safe, she

sighed, whereas I reveal

all and revel in it.

Come, feel, my flesh is real.

You hide everything, said

he. Oh, I see your

crutch and pouting nipples.

But your exhibition,

as such, is merely to

distract from the real you.

Really you reveal nothing.

You have no passion, she

said. Why don’t you stand

naked and chance my bed?

I have, I have, the Little

Man exclaimed, but in my

head. Don’t you see in

different ways we’re both the

same:

too frightened to be found

wanting in our wanting.