I know so much
more about her now,
yet know so little,
having once caressed
the shell she
occupies,
my fingers feeling
the rough surface,
my mind, plunging
into those recesses
where the soft parts
lie.
I know every bump and ridge,
where the scars are,
those tender places
where she derives pleasure,
though it is not
my fingers or tongue,
lips or hips
that brings her this,
still envy those fingers
that tongue that does,
the touch she longs
for
from the hand she
so desires to regain,
a tongue that has
penetrated her,
licked away those
defenses,
pressed past the rough
surface to invade
her most tender places,
a universe of its
own,
a place so sacred
only the highest
of priests might go there,
a holy place behind
the holy face.
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