What are we but our vulnerable places? The places neither of us can see?
But i would tickle Your secrets with my fingertips,
and breathe life between whispered words.
i would caress the undersides of Your breasts
where the skin is tender and folds,
and lift the weight of Your belly
to nibble at each hidden hip.
What are we but these things we do
between the promises of what will come next?
And though i have oft held my lips to Yours,
anticipation sends me groveling for more.
i would drag my mouth trembling -
sighing, soft, and warm -
along the dark dusky curves of Your thighs
(the ones that You claim to hate).
What am i but kneeling before You? Lost in a sea of skirts?
But i would worship You with my palms,
pray hard with lips and tongue,
until Your breath cried Truth at last,
and Your toes touched again to the ground.
