The Book of Your Body

My mind’s eye

begins the story

of my needy finger tips

wending their way

along your arm.

I want to be blind & read you

like the Braille book that you are,

that you would be to me.

New chapters draw me in:

the roughness of your sharp elbow,

the musky forest where your arm

meets your utterly smooth chest,

the hollow where your ribs

meet well above your belly button.

You are a novel

I cannot put down,

will not put down,

will lie to my boss

& call in sick to finish,

leaving each page dog-earred

& meticulously consumed.

I am overcome

by the imagined sensation

of what each section

of your delicious body

would taste like:

the lull of sweet

as my lips graze yours,

seeking and confirming

our mutual delight;

the sting of your unshaven cheek

as my own cheek slides across,

then nudges, then pushes into yours;

the tease of sour as I nip, then bite,

the nape of your neck

& chew the lobe, my breath

hot & weighty in your ear;

the flirt of salt that lingers

on your shoulder blades,

each jutting out as I

grasp your arms behind your back,

an enticing resistance

urging us onward.

I see the moist notations

my tongue traces

in the margins

as I move downward

along your spine,

each vertebrae sighing

as my sweet breath hovers,

teasingly, there at that delicate place

where your one back

becomes two palmfuls of flesh .

My parted lips bounce over

the smooth texture of your hips,

solid & firm under kisses

as I turn your body

from back to front,

cover to cover,

bringing a swirling infusion

of tongue, lips, & breath

to your navel.

I am wet.

I cannot go on.

I blush at the thought

of putting to paper

what else my mind’s eye

has conjured.

Perhaps I have not made good

on my promise to complete the novel

of your enthralling body.

Or there remains a sequel

yet to be written.

(cc) Karen G. Johnston