It was the silence that turned my morning voice to the vagueness of one who wants to forget. Had I been insincere merely because a disturbing desire to touch you had possessed me since first I saw. . . . Eyes, which had always, even when you were my student, mandated honesty like those of mother asking for the "real" reason, even now when no mother could understand the loneliness that was mine to confess. lips, wetly reminiscent of childhood afternoons, when I liked to play with my tongue on spoons of peanut butter in a warm parlor, alone. Not that I touched, But that I touched in silence --without warning, drunk? awakened suddenly?-- It was the silence that turned my morning voice to the vagueness of one who wants to forget.