Tuesday, November 21, 2006

#212: November 21, 2006

The way you curve between shoulder and hip,
hands stretched above your head, a violin
of flesh; your sides invite my palms to slip
the alabaster polish of your skin--

I'd fold your fingers, tune your humming nerves
with feather touches down your arms, and know
you vibrant, vibrating within those curves
while I stand straight and rigid, like a bow--

I'd lay my cheek along your thigh and wait,
the hush and stillness; I could disappear
into the music we anticipate,
this symphony that only we will hear--

The way you answer me, taut as a string--
I move my hand over you, and you sing.

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