Hand and Imagination: Him

The only light the face of the moon,
he scrunched up in bed while she unfolded.
His stomach, crinkled like a washboard,
a bead of sweat crawling, like morning dew.
O, how the fantasy of her scalded and scolded;
He could see the silhouette of her rise:
A wet pocket in which he could hear his body sigh.

His veins victim to his five-fingered sleeve,
his hips that bucked up and the rhythmic heave.
Cream dripped forth like from a fountain;
God, how he’d love to grease her face with such.
The firm hills of her breasts, full and round,
needed the warmth of his tongue that would cleave.

The mop of his hair, so dampened now,
clenched teeth and looking towards the sky;
His caress was never quite as mysterious as hers.
His body, tense and muscled, wanted her to follow.
Hand over hand, he would teach her to touch,
open her jaw for Paris kisses and swallow.

His two hips longed to meet her round ones;
Soft and coarse hairs exchanging secrets.
The firework came from within, all ivory spurts,
as he dreamt of her long hair and tight miniskirts.
His slick moisture crawled with perspiration:
It was felt rather than seen (like love).