I still feel it sometimes in the dead of night, how each
feels against the palms of my hands, something more than a memory, a touch that
has seeped under my skin and into my blood so I can never be rid of it, soft
yet firm at the tips, firmer when I pinch or lick or suck, they fitting m y
lips as well as my hands, a dreamscape, a memory land I still stroll down even
when the reality of it is no longer possible, a pleasant stroll down a garden
path when I still crave the smell of roses, having long forgotten the sting the
thorns also bring, pain and pleasure, locked always into that same embrace, even
in memory, although now, it is one of abstinence, of no longer having what was
once was, as I prefer bleeding fingers to no pain at all.
No comments:
Post a Comment