Laughing Medusas

The first man incarnate, you were to me a Greek statue made flesh. The skin, the seeking eyes, the form of a marble athlete with a small layer of humanity, and those hands. My god, those hands. The sensual promise of that palm and five digits...

You studied me with your fingertips. As though the secrets of the universe were written in braille upon my body. Your hands, that appeared so unassuming as they ran through your hair, pulled me close and held me tight. Your deft fingers that danced between my thighs with agility and precision.

Your hands that transformed me, as even my most awkwards places became sexy beneath your caress. Your hands that would pull my hair out of my face so you could see me when you kissed me, when I took you in my mouth, when you penetrated deep inside me.

Your hands that never type my name, that no longer pick up the phone, that have stopped reaching for me. Your hands that I feel even now, as I close my eyes and retrace the trail of your last touch.

~Asherah