Skin

There are times in the morning or late in the evening
When skin feels as smooth as the edge of a cloud
Finger tips tracing like braille in the reading
Decoding the message not spoken aloud

Lips that are meant to be kissed by the moment
Sheets that are cool as a white raging stream
Satins and sachets and silks writhe in torment
Innocent eyes masked by sighs in a dream

Love is a taste that can always be savored
Rolled around tongues like a word in a lie
Sweet as a honey pot, saccharine flavored
Wasted and wanton and cloyingly dry

Touch is a gift that can never be given
Can never be taken, it must always return
Wrapped in white linen or curled in a ribbon
Sliding on ice is a nice way to burn

There are times in the morning or late in the evening
When skin feels as smooth as a name in a song
An aria sung by a sad-eyed soprano
Languid and limpid and lovely and long

Textures and patterns all passioned and poignant
Blended and braided and lost in a moan
There are times in the morning or late in the evening
When skin upon skin has a life of its own

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