Bliss

Sunday evenings

Waking up to skin pressed against the lightest of cotton shirts

See through it almost feels translucent

Legs draped over mahogany sheets

No need for dialogue when our bodies speak

In tongues

In hieroglyphics

In poetry

In memory of those who may have touched us but never knew the depth of our souls

Can you undress the parts or me clothes could never cover

Kisses on my shoulders hang from my waist and fall to my knees in desperation

your hands weather my storms

your hands call me home

Your hands remind me that my pleasure is mine alone