Touch is orphan to sight and sound,
Oft neglected,
seldom noted,
Goes untasted and
untested.
Simply taken as
for granted until
Dark of night
surrounds
And we struggle
with the muggle
As other senses
have been bested.
None can lie or
scarce deny
The sensory
elation
That cast upon the
fingertips
In featherlike
sensations.
Cloaked in
effervescent rains
The tidal rush
ascends.
No higher
intoxication
Than the kiss of
supple skin.
Lying soft in fond
embrace,
Tender smiles caress
your face.
A gentle kiss upon
your nape
That says so much
but leaves no trace.
And I am left with
dire yen
To touch you once
and once again
To know that
heaven can descend with
The brush of soft
and supple skin.
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