Again

Her vulnerable stillness is what draws me.
She lies face down, a sheet
extending from her feet
to midway up the rise
of her rounded ass.
My index finger
traces along from the wrist,
angling around the elbow,
to her fleshy upper arm.

I continue up, a finger on my other hand
follows the same path,
the same theme,
to the shoulder, to her nape and neck.
As the first finishes,
it returns to begin again,
carried along by the memory.
The two together,
sharing a pattern,
moving in steady, purposeful motion,
yet repeating
at a different place on the path.
A feather fugue of touch.

One hand's pattern now varies
to another path,
yet not far from before.
Its partner knows
the new destination,
yet remains in its cyclic place,
urging joined effect
into the ready, melting form.

The first hand slows at her neck,
nearly stopping,
and gradually
drifts down her back,
all tips of fingers now engaged.
The other flows down,
following as before,
but deviating to one side.
Each finishes along
the upward lift of buttocks,
pushes back the sheet to legs.
And then repeats,
along the spine,
muscle ridges of simple beauty,
lying still, accepting the gentleness.
Again . Again.

Vial of warm oil,
scented with patchouli,
Passes onto my hand.
Motions repeat but fingers join together
to press into skin and flesh firmly,
then along their paths.
My hands touch off heat impulses,
nudging, spreading, across her back.

Graceful contours of enticing flesh
provide the easel
for this lazy-drawn painting.
Smaller, oval patterns come,
slow curves,
then sudden surges.
Again . Again.

The smooth skin is yours, dear.
The body I trace is your own.
It is your rising sensation
that carries these messages
to your inner center of knowing.
Feel these moments into your soul.

Now both hands boldly slide,
deeply press as other muscles,
tense before,
learn to release and relax.
A haze enters your mind,
but nothing seems masked,
everything is present for your feeling.

Motions repeat
and melt inward,
merging deep to bone,
softened into mellow submission.
The aroma enters you throughout,
and carries also
the fragrance of your lover.

The lowest part of the back yields,
and the narrow point continues up
to soft derriere,
a form of yielding tissue,
awakened to a memory
of connecting sensations,
held, squeezed,
kneaded, loved.

Long, cascading strokes
pass from thigh to ass
to back and shoulder.
Again, your body asks,
again my hands answer.
Pulling along sides,
finger around hip-bone,
softness, lower rib,
tenderest of breast revealing itself.
Again ... Again.

The knowing
of our trigger-nerve body-souls
has passed through these hands,
searching out and gathering back in.
Shall we follow
and pass through other paths
set out before us,
for aching pleasure,
for straining joy?

We shall, my love,
we shall.
Again ... Again.