Your Skin

Oh, I miss your skin,
soft with constellations of freckles
like a mirror, a beige roadmap
only I have the eyes to read.
I want the pressure of your hands on my hips,
fingers calloused from endless conversations with steel strings
and black wood,
the chords that unlocked my heart
for your careful use.
I miss that clear blue shade of lust in your eyes,
where you don't need to touch me for my body to know.
I can feel your need even now,
800 miles away,
the thoughts that make me,
a seasoned explorer,
blush like spring.
I want to feel those muscles you deny you have
lifting me into the kind of embrace
dreamed up in romance novels,
with less cheesy verbs and more scented heat
with more teeth catching lips,
fingers sliding over slick and sweaty flesh like lava.
No fireworks, just guttural cries in a rising crescendo,
heartbeats hoofbeats,
bodies fierce and instinctual and
not at all like in the movies.
We'll clash like thunder,
eyes locked into one another until we tire,
sweaty and gasping,
and lay on top of eachother, joined into one
celestial body,
and when we kiss
we won't know where my lips end
and yours begin.