Barthes, e.e.cummings, a lover and a redhead

Mis palabras te tocan,
hablo,
hablamos,
y mis palabras se enredan entre tus dedos.
No sé qué tienes que me hace hablar.
No sé qué haces que me tiene presa.
Es algo rojo y suave,
frágil,
es algo que cambia cuando lo describo
(si hablarte es tocarte,
si mis dedos te tocan, te cuentan un cuento)

My words touch you,
I talk,
we’re talking,
and my words get tangled between your fingers.
I don’t know what you have that makes me talk.
I don’t know what you make that has me enthralled.
It’s something red and soft,
fragile,
it’s something that changes as I describe it.
(if talking to you is touching you,
when my fingers touch you they tell you a story).

This poem should be in the archives but it has vanished for some reason. It's probably the densest collection of allusions I've ever managed. Most of them are too small or obscure to be noticeable.