Pretend your hands are my hands, you said,
warm between your thighs...
your touch precise enough, on a 9 degrees
windy night, that I feel as if the sculptor
has outlined in black marker pen
exactly the area of my inner-sanctum and
excised the cold muscle there,
replacing it with liquid fire.
With your hands, I moan out loud,
the map of my body erupting in new countries.
I feel the blood flowing through chiseled veins
in a way I never have before;
I feel its pleasure-pain and urge you to
Feel my cold spots, wherein you run
your hands across my body, up my sides, feeling
the familiar warm flesh and then
the sudden shift to cold terrain.
I see the look in your eyes,
the way you marvel -
You are always coldest, my love,
where you are most female!
and I move once more to accommodate
in cool, unfinished anticipation...
Inside the Marble
İcrisstiena
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