An undercurrent
of shivers would brush
behind your ear
against your neck,
down the ***** of
your collarbone.
You would feel it,
the gossamer touch
folding into dusk
across your skin,
finding its way
pleadingly slow.
Umber and sienna,
the feel of your body
against the earth,
as raw and open
as being vulnerable
can let you be.
The fight against
pleasure is a battle
that you would lose,
but I would abandon
my breath just to
catch yours on the
cusp of falling.