Oh, touch me there, she whispers, leading my
hand with her hand, gently as sliding a
rosebud in a vase, her breathing a shy,
slowing breeze, then suddenly aria
of silence, waiting, waiting, flesh feeling
tender flex of my fingertips unfold
her flowing crevice. Oh, this is healing,
she sighs, our flamed bodies trembling. Oh, hold
me like you mean it! she gasps. You know I
do, I moan, startled by my honest tone,
my sudden relief of crying, her cry
joining mine, our torsos and limbs as one
earth exploding into some mesosphere
of grace, my voice pleading, Oh, touch me there!
Roger Armbrust
May 9, 2009
