I bet you didn’t know I write poetry, did ya?
Hell yes. 2nd place in the regional poetry contest back in 6th grade. Some crap about a rainstorm. All I remember is that it didn’t rhyme and that somehow made it better than the ones that did.
On through college, I found it was much easier to be poetic when I was miserable and lonely. I haven’t had that in a long time, so my poetic skills are a bit dusty.
I’ve been in Iowa for a week now and I’m ready to get home. I missed my daughter’s 10th birthday yesterday and I will miss my youngest daughter’s Tae Kwon Do test tomorrow. There is a little bit that old melancholy setting in and it has stirred up the poet in me.
This is a tribute to my wonderful wife, whom I am missing very much right now.
Your eyes are shining and you smile.
“I want to touch.”
Fingertips drag across my chest, leaving goose bumps in their wake.
I want to grab you and throw you down, but no. You want to touch.
Your hands are cool, a refreshing contrast to my hot skin.
You scratch, you kiss. You nip.
“I want to touch,” you say when I yelp.
I surrender to you, I am yours.
Soft whispers of touch cover every inch of my body,
slowly exploring as if it were the first time.
I close my eyes, hypnotized as you trace a line up and down my arm.
I am lost in the tenderness of your touch.
I try not to kick you when you poke that spot in my side.
“Let me make it up to you,” you say.
And your touch isn’t cool anymore.
Hot, wet kisses make slow circles down my legs,
tempting me with promises of what your touch can do.
I am fully yours, but I will not beg.
It isn’t required; you want to touch.
Your soft touch turns hungry.
I am at your mercy and you tease me.
Drawing me close to the edge, pulling me back. Over and over again.
I will not beg. But it is not required.
You want to touch. And taste.
You nuzzle my neck and caress my face, curling your body against mine.
Tomorrow, I will throw you down and have my way with you.
Tonight, I am content to let you touch.