The imprint of your fingers is on my skin, last night lingering like a thin meniscus held in place by the subtle tension of my longing for you.  Your words tell me you want me, love me, desire me.  Your words ring in my body like a bell, and yet it is your fingers that spill love notes onto my paper skin.  Your fingers tracing the shape of the space I inhabit, as if you were learning the contours of me.  Your words, a gift, and yet your body had already whispered what your lips were afraid to say, that you have lost and found yourself within me as deeply as I have within you.  
No-one has touched me the way you do, as though I were a sacred landscape to experience rather than to cultivate.  As though I were a sacred song that you let vibrate the strings of your being rather than plucking discordant.  You delve deeply my love and I cannot help but feel that you do see me, your eyes rich with light and shadow calling that chthonic sacral swell within me.   A call, primal and true, to which my body answers over and over...and that song, ringing overtones of rightness between us.  

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