My fingers testing your body’s texture.
My fingers caressing your skin’s landscape.
My fingers caught in musing conjecture
of your reaction as I trace soft nape
of your neck. My strong fingers outlasting
your long sigh for affection, controlling
graceful rhythms of deep massage, casting
mild glances on your nipples, consoling
sudden shivers—flesh’s message of sweet
response. My shy fingers growing bolder
through their caring journey, nearly complete
there between your thighs, sensing your shoulder’s
slow curl, seeing growing fire in your eyes.
My fingers bowing to your gentle cries.
Roger Armbrust
August 3,
2013
