the Dancing of Fingers

January 30, 2009
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His hands are warm like
Sunlight on a summer day,
And big,
That covers the smallness of my own.
They dance to the tune of hot salsa music,
The beat traces the lines on my palms
Like that of a lily's roots.
The heat steadily grows and
Finger tips sigh,
With wet steam.
They intertwine with a gasp,
As the moon peaks through the soft curtains,
The air is heavy from candlelit stars,

The world spins,
And the palms press with a deep gratifying moan.

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