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I am in love with your hands, your fingers,
they have brought you more pleasure than I will
ever. Swift movements in the night where blur
and swish is called for, touch and stir, until
a coast of flesh, repeated broken beat
your chants, your prayers, bombastic solitude
when no one else would have you. Your discreet
pleasure, because it always is. Prelude
of things to come – like you. Show me your hands,
let me praise what you do effortlessly.
Grasped at length stroked, stroked – liquid gasp, your breath
in twos, threes, fours. Downs. Down in your lowlands,
where no one goes, I call that mystery.
Show me how you pray. Show me your small death.