THE RUNNING OF MY HANDS

The salt of my neck,

the confidence of my

mouth, 

the tip of my nose as I drag it

slowly 

across your chest. 

Hair that I washed twice

just to make sure you’d remember

the smell.

I think you'll like the way I taste.

I think you'd like the salt––

that little patch of anger I hide

on the back of my tongue.

Humble lips,

and a tongue that knows far too well

what it's doing. 

​

I’ll show you how to own someone.

I’ll make you forget

that my body never quivers

beneath yours;

that I may moan,

but it is patterned.

When I’m alone,

I lay naked atop the covers

of my bed 

and run my fingers

from the top of my face

down to my hips,

dragging the tip of my middle finger

slowly

across the crest of my lips––

imagining what they must feel like

to another

when kissed.  

It’s erotic,

but not aggressive.

It’s actually the most loving act

I will know—

the running of my hands.

​

_________________________________________________________________________________________________ (Image: ©Bill Henson)