Nov 132009

No blood rushes to my face,
nor my heart skips one beat,
when you touch me with
the giggled touch
of a teenage schoolgirl
bemused by fancy things.

The gentle brush of your skin,
the soft pinch of pale corals that are your fingers,
upon my once unfeeling arm,
doesn’t redden my cheeks
as the sun would on clear days.

Only the muted urge, restrained and unleashed,
of longing and desire
overcomes me,
ties me to the stake,
fans the flames,
and burns me alive with that ancient invisible fire,
as if I were dry wood
upon the altar of sacrificial adoration.

Your innocent touch, unknowing and sincere,
warms the lifeless heart that cools
the night breeze blowing quietly
upon this balcony
carrying with it the scent of melted cheese,
of cigarette smoke,
and of the hope of relief
into oblivion.

It is torment. But, touch me again like that.
Perhaps, this time, my blood will flow
through my veins again.

Photo credit: Martin Stranka,

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