her hands . . .

She speaks with her hands.

Long, elegant fingers - pulling, twisting, curling.

Soft and strong - an artists hands; their uses unlimited.

I could tell you wonderful things about these hands

clasped so intimately with my own - clenching and unclenching; she directs our motion.

Her back arches as I slide my hands up her thighs; her hands fist in the sheets and I am gone; yeilding completly.



She tells me it's my lips.

She places kisses along my collar bone and trails them down towards my breast and stares up through her bangs to watch my lips.

She tells me there's a silence in my smile that contents her.



She doesn't care much for eyes and I agree.

In this place eye contact is avoided;

words forgotten - the use of either would be deceiving.

Eyes are liars; hidden away beneath hair or lenses

and voices crack; the wrong emotion displayed everytime.

The soul is found elsewhere.

In her hands . . .

My lips . . .