White Skin
Her,
white skin
breaks at the sleeves of designer fabric
and pulls me into the plunging neckline of a cotton top
as my mind spins pictures
like three roman numerals
illuminating from some loitered street cinema
i stop in.
She moves to make herself comfortable
and I sit behind a coin operated window booth.
She wears pants that go over her knees
but are left reaching for her ankles from the seams.
White skin,
runs there like an incomplete thought,
why won’t she cover it?
I watch it rising with Goosebumps,
I long to warm it with my hand
and be that linen
she drapes her body with
like a bushel.
It makes me curious of shame,
CURSE EDEN!
I long to see her free of clothing
and uncrossing her legs with an open smile,
waiting.
Oh, to see her turning over my mattress
like a proposition.
I’d take her dancing with satin,
thorough with maneuver, timing and execution.
I would not take for granted, one inch
and spread the scent of passion
to the coil springs
until her
white skin
turns pink.
Oh, but how she can be coy
with her linens..
pulling and removing with casualty.
There are layers like chains
and my fingers fidget nervously
wanting to unclasp,
pull over, down and under,
them.
How,
can she be so cool
while I am moving the skin around my neck
like rope,
wanting to jump, slip
or force myself
inside her,
just for the illusion of control.
It’s not fair,
she toys with me
and she knows
I have been deprived these recreational encounters
even in reference,
more nights than she’s wasted with a man.
She speaks in tongues and does things to me
with her eyes
that she cannot do with her hands.
I am waiting for it to end
but, it has been months
and yet i long,
with my mind popping quarters
like aspirin.
Her,
white skin
breaks like a vowel
conforming to the walls of its designer prison
like water in a glass.
Her,
white skin
like pollen,
to match her fragile temperament,
I would cup her in my hand
and raise her to my lips, holding my breath for the wind.
I would take her dancing,
her open smile, her white skin…
digging into my coil springs.
I bet
she would not be so coy,
with my kiss for her clothing.
