touch
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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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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 