melissaahowells
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your hands so warm are made for touching the palms and the fingertips affect me as if I were melting butter your hands sit folded in front of you poised to touch but not touching and then are tucked away into the deep pockets of your baggy pants if I were bread dough I'd rise to meet them becoming so malleable the breadth of your supple longer fingers would need/knead me into deep sighs men think their power comes from words and size and dominance but their power comes from their hands and their choices to be gentle I long for the stippling of your finger tips weaving across my protruding collarbone then traveling down my neck where they linger as your kisses would please, why is there a price for your touch? not being touched is a thought my heart can't bear why do distances become so wide that you seem unreachable I'm treading the waters near your shore there are rocks and eddies and sneaker waves lashing the shoreline it makes me wonder what is your price knowing, I have already paid it, I am priceless then, why the price for your touch? ****************************************** LEGAL COPYRIGHT FOR THIS POEM 1/25/2022 1:11PM PST AND ALSO FOR THIS POET MELISSA A. HOWELLS AND ALSO FOR THIS LEGALLY COPYRIGHTED AND REGISTERED SITE TITLE MELOO STRAIGHT FROM HER TILT-A-WORLD..... ****************************************** Vote for this poem |
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