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By Rhetoric Date: 2003 Sep 27 Comment on this Work [[2003.09.27.12.17.6796]] |
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It feels like powdery, buttery semolina that wisps through my partly open hand. The finest of mill, the softest texture; that I run my fingers in from end to end. If your skin were deep, like a wooden barrel, I might find myself rubbing arm to shoulder with the smoothness of your touch. I could lean far over the top and take in all of your smell, taste, and sweet humidity like a spice; aromatics and fine wafting dust all around my nose and mouth. How I once did ache to make clever work on the surface of your skin. Entice you with a salve of sweet almond oil and sandalwood, shine and glistening upon the threads of your hairs. Take my hands up the nape and around to the swell of your well-built chest, again thick with yielding patches of hair. Each moment is forever summer from the combined heat. I am warmed in the mist of your mouth. Regrettably, I am never to know the delicate flavors of your tongue. Heady lust is tempered by the cool granite of your unyielding stare. I will abide, but in no way will I allow my imagery to falter under the weight of your resistance. |