Chinadoll
I remember your hands
and their journeys,
firm and sure
they planed my hips,
and smoothed thighs
to abandonment
you touched my eyes
asleep,
as if you could see
the visions of want
in my dream,
rimming my lips of the taste
lingering from my last meal,
(sometimes you)
your hands haunt me
like ghosts of themselves
where once, you would need
to feel the pressure of us
now,
you pick me up like fine china
and press my hands to your lips
as if sipping tea
treat me as iron and marble
pound and polish me
until I beg for no more
|