She senses flames leaping, a hot fire building —
a yearning
for the feeling
of calloused hands,
roughened from life in the matrix.
He sits transfixed,
as if
years of hard living had created in him
a void that could not be filled
by the mere physical —
seeking spiritual;
blended into the feel of silkened thighs,
wrapped around his imagination —
these hands.
He knew that she wanted the touch
after so much
weighing and measuring;
adding
to the knowing that this was not the one —
merely teasing the fire,
warming desire,
but never quite satisfying the longing
of the taut string
strumming and humming;
Reaching that special pitch
that only his ears can pick;
ready hands together, rubbing
he leaves
in search of lost love.
© 2022 Ilis Trudie Palmer
One Love
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