hands
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I would break through veins and veils to have your fingertips on mine,on me.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
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I bite in,raw, with fervour,it dribbles off my lips and through my fingers.I am unquenchable, insatiable, panting, 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 newbornand sinful as the dead.My teeth on yours,unable to quell desire.
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my hands,from which i divine with.to caress a glossy deckand trust that they know when to pull a sword or a cup. palms up in my lap during quiet morning musings, to invite stillness and knowing into my days.
Lashanda Forsberg 