There are fifty ways I can touch you.
My tongue has a word for each way.
It speaks softly in the dead of the night, when it
wants to tell you secret. When I'm too proud to say
I'm sorry, or you were right. Or don't have the strength
to say promise me this was the last time.
Firmly, it speaks from the very core of my being, Those
times when I'm not kidding around, I'll say
'Dude you messed with the wrong chick here,
you best be stopping this bullshit. And now.'
Ravenous, I will speak from my deepest, most
shameful desire. I will ache the ache of a week's
hunger, I will speak incorrigibly and without poise.
In clumsy haste, when there's no way I can wait anymore.
Innocently and with great care, I will ask,
'let me touch you.' When I don't want to tarnish
your beauty. When I worry my myriad flaws and my
missing pieces will ruin your perfect state of bliss.
Let me read you with my palm, let me
memorize your face. There is a world I can know
from just touching you. Let my skin feel the skin of you,
let the stories our skins hold find release.
And even when I am peckish, give me just a taste
of you, a whole meal of you might be more than
I can handle. With fingers, tongue and lips let me
sample you, just a dose will be all that I need.
I know fifty ways I can touch you,
I have a word for every single one.
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