I would break through veins and veils to have your fingertips on mine,
I know every ridge and curlicue,
where your nail beds meet their tips,
and where my skin has reached up to receive them.
If not for skin, pleasure would weep and trail so effusively out of me.
Every cell and fibre knows no more than response.
A touch so titillating,
you revert me to an ancient form.
an existence purely tactile,
for the graze and grope of your hands.
I am blessed to be so complex,
as to understand in both mind and body,
what it means to have your fingertips on mine,
I bite in,
raw, with fervour,
it dribbles off my lips and through my fingers.
I am unquenchable, insatiable,
my hunger, thirst, ripe as a summer’s peach,
but it’s a summer’s love that begs to me,
sticky on my skin,
nestled in my neck.
I want a love pure as a newborn
and sinful as the dead.
My teeth on yours,
unable to quell desire.
With your peach heart
in my peach hands,
I take a bite.
Tamed I may be, by a summer’s love.
the way it tasted in my mouth,
on my pitiful fortuned future,
one where a man
with a hairy chest and no room in it for me,
was what to desire,
so I learned to choke back my own,
believing a life without love,
a throat full of thirst,
was my white flag.
So don’t tell me you always knew,
because for a long time I didn’t.
I held in my mouth the dripping inkling
that i was meant for a woman all along.
But the delectable nectar,
the joyous certainty,
was far too sweet to spit out.
Hope courses through my veins,
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but one nick and it empties onto my skin.