The Parting
My heartbeats measure the night.
How many weeks now has sleep mocked me?
How many months?
Late in the breathing hours when
My blood’s rhythm drowns my mind,
When I softly touch oblivion -
My hands betray me.
Through my fingertips pulses
The feel of you;
My treacherous hands throb down your body
Until their aching need pervades my thighs -
My heart - my soul.
But I have nothing -
Only the feel of you in my fingers.
Cynthia Buell Thomas np
<Deleted User> (13947)
Fri 28th Aug 2015 12:38
I'm so glad I decided to putter about the site and found this. So powerful and sensual. And with just the right amount of sadness and longing I'm drawn to. I could see myself writing something like this. So very glad I found this!