Cold Hands.

Coldness wrap me in your silky smooth arms,
musclature all twisty, raised and smooth,
hold me to your chest like a vice,
and cup my face in your hand.
I wanted to kiss you lips,
find some warmth within you,
face averted like the portrait…
flat on the table, face down.
It is beautiful,
beautiful,
screamingly, cryingly, painfully beautiful.
Like a whip to my legs,
like a nettle sting,
a wasp,
a bite…
Love spreads in my blood stream,
sweet, honeyed, delicious,
and I am in its arms,
where I want to be,
held tight against its chest again.
It has been so long,
since my skin stretched,
and my arms ached,
my legs trembled,
and the heat of the moment swallows me whole,
pulls me, moves me, my mouth yearns…
Coldness, now move a little,
slip your hand under my stomach,
smooth me, touch me, cup me,
keep me real and make me feel.
Once more, cold hands, sooth my skin.
My back arched, indented, lines all down and deep,
looking back now, images hot and pink,
I feel better, warmer, safer, calmer…
Your veins are all raised like scars and roads,
all moist, movement, pulse,
and coldness, where are you now?
When I am lying in the centre, breathing hard,
breathing the scent…

Cold Hands.

Fuschia

Kingston Upon Thames, United Kingdom

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