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His.
His hands could map out the stars in a constellation,
or point to every inch of the world with one flick of the wrist.
But instead they touched me,
and roamed every place that a hand could reach.
His tongue could speak in every language,
recite poetry from a thousand years.
But he did not use it to teach or to speak,
He used to it caress.
To taste.
Me.
His eyes saw everything,
every inch that something moved,
every breeze that passed through the air.
And they saw into me.
They saw into my deepest caverns,
into my mind,
into my body.
Into my every thought of every waking moment.
My thoughts were his.
My body was his.
I was his.
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