Beauty is skin,
Smooth and unblemished,
Textures that hunger for touch,
From fingertips of gold,
Pores that breathe, sigh and moan,
And creases that reflect,
The essence of you.
Beauty is shape,
The sweep of the curves,
From prominent shoulders,
To the slimmest waist, and outward,
By the flare of the hips,
A musical richness and,
In likeness of a Cello or Bass.
Beauty is colour,
Blackest of night,
Or deep, chocolate brown,
Glistening in daylight,
Shining brightly at night,
Colours of darkest autumn leaves,
Like a scintillating, effervescent breeze.
Beauty is touch,
Whether by fingers or lips,
Be they moist or friction-free,
The Softness and texture,
The shivering touch,
Across luscious lips of red,
Or the dimple on your face.
Beauty is you,
In a reflective pose,
The over-the-shoulder stare,
Cascading, jet-black hair,
The wriggling tattoos,
That snake along your spine,
Yet stop above the roundest behind.
Beauty is to behold,
To want or even – to need,
To see the elegance of form,
As the day you were born,
To feel your skin on fingers that tingle,
To round your bottom – seek what’s there,
In that velvet dingle beyond my stare.
Beauty is,
Intertwined fingers of,
Colours that cannot see,
Gentle are lips that kiss soft skin,
Palms that feel smoothness,
From curves of heat,
Curves of beauty that placate the beast.
