Your
hand as a half sunken cello on me.
Your
fingers are strings to aliven.
Your
slow touch bowing as sound-wave-tremors
are
the acapella whispers of fast talkers.
Where
your fingertip skin forms mouths
is
that touch as lips on me,
as
an ocean bed of skin as ears listens
for
your finger tongues are dancing.
The
fluids of my senses find your calm,
drink
your nearness, feel the sky weight
of
your Albatross gaze.
Each
touch-gesture drips a weep impress,
conveys
soft as heavy while light.
The
passage of our time is muted shades of impress,
feathery
notes in passing, leaving mystical as melody
ascending
beyond any memory.
My
skin becomes your daydreams' absent mind,
tells
me comfort is within.
The
way your grace attends,
tells
me of trust's ambient confidence
that
your free spirit to me, so lightly blends.
You
are the maestro-touch that molds me from clay.
Drawn
from your contact, a river for me to swim,
a
current of breath to flow-attend.
To
match your breath with mine,
is
to lie in the hammock of your heartbeat,
standing
over me as downy lightness.
You
are my sky of inquiry,
igniting
liquid lava out of my mindful surge ascending.
I
am my fire place of listening,
to
learn of the lucidity
between
what your finger-leaves across me
and
my now-skin of breeze,
to
become the soul-stone of wind
solid,
to the touch from your trees . . .
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