A Tender Prickle

It is enough to say,
I felt that.
Even when movement
shifts the air space
I do not need intense
physical pain,
for the body
already reflects.
Why would
such sweetness,
bending to the ear,
the heat of almost,
need to cut and
draw blood?
for the touch along my nape
requires only
the thought of knowing
your lips, slowly
greeting the soft,
allowing a meeting
with the firm, bending
rising and recoiling
over and again,
as often as the
need arises.
No, a tender prickle,
the bristling of
your shadow,
finding the rhythm
of the dance that ensues.
Just you,
a wanting desire,
more than enough
to warm the blood
to boil over.

Raine Les 8/18/2009