CONFESSIONS OF A TOUCH JUNKIE
In my anger
From my deep sleep
You curl yourself
Around me,
Lightly fingers
Nail cross skin.
Your hands touch hip
And shoulder line
A summer twining
Smoke curl.
You melt me toward
You. I roll into
The object of my
Rage, listen to touch
And forget the silence
That I carry
And the years of
Heart concessions
As your mouth
Makes little kisses
Down my leg.