The tips of my fingers
Can’t help my continually tell me,
As my eyes can’t help but notice,
Just how luck I truly am.

Smooth as silk,
Soft as shea butter,
White as the freshest milk,
Your skin stretches before me.
My fingertips wander,
Slowly and serenely exploring
Every delicate and delightful inch
Of the most beautiful form
God has ever conceived.

My eyes cast their gaze over you,
Over every secret and sacred patch of skin
That we both know I love.

Like the line where your thigh crests;
There is the slightest crevice
Before your pelvis begins.
It’s such a sensual textural sensation,
That shifting surface of your skin.
To me, that’s how love feels.

Or the skin pulled tight
On the sides of your hips,
Your perfect cheek adding a little jiggle;
Just the right amount of volume and tension
For my hands to grab and hold,
Or shake with ownership and intention.

And, of course, that patch of skin
To the side of each breast,
Where it first meets and joins your ribs.
I’ve never felt anything else quite like it,
And if there is a heaven,
I hope it feels even half as good,
Or looks half as beautiful,
As that most holy ground
That I first dubbed “Sacred Skin”.