As though touching her
(Is what he is made for)
Might make him known to himself,
(Known by his elders ideas and beliefs)
As though his hand moving
(is enough to warm the skin)
Over her body might find who
(he is inside)
he is, as though he lay inside her, a country
(His fingers walk her skin finding the sensitive land that makes her giggle)
His hand's traveling unconvered,
(no lies in the shape of rings, nails cut so low the pink skin stings)
As though such a country arose
(this place he claims his own, and she accepts)
Continually up and out of her
(always watching to make sure this is alright)
To meet his hand's setting forth and setting forth.
(hoping to find another pair of hands to clutch inside his own)
And the places on her body have no names.
(so he names them in wispers, sealing the names with a kiss)
And she is what's immense about the night.
(she is what the star's shine for, she is what his blood runs for)
And their clothes on the floor are arranged
(in the morning it is forgotten and replaced by __________________.)
© Copyright 2016 Michael Lange. All rights reserved.
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