At the Foot of Mount Paradise

Toes:
Longer than you might expect,
With tips which seem unexpectedly to bulge.
Short, chipped, red-painted nails crown
Skin: slightly split, pleasantly rough
Under my tongue as it follows every ridge, every nuance of its folds.
The foots' ball and heel have a firmer coating:
Delectably resistant to the nibbling of my teeth;
While the arch is more tender beneath my stolen kisses,
Which trace a fine moist trail along its curve.
My fingers massage the uppers
And I can feel each delicate bone beneath my touch,
Dainty and fragile,
See the veins which run so close below the surface of this paler skin
Which carpets the sweep to the ankle.
Here the path narrows and steepens:
Twin nodules form a ledge above which I will not endeavour.
And so once again down.
I kiss and massage my way back to the toes,
Where I linger to worship once more:
Paying homage to the vehicles which carry the one I so adore.