How do you know
just how to touch me?”
The question escaped her lips
in one breath
before she collapsed against me
nuzzling and blushing
into my chest hair
~
I consider deflecting
Telling her
that a magician
never reveals his tricks
Does she really want to know?
~
Maybe I can tell her
that it’s because I remember
every conversation we’ve ever had
I know she worries
feeling desired
so I know how to grip her
like I’m going to tear her to pieces
I know others rushed
so I rest my beard
between her legs
and luxuriate as she soaks my face.
~
Maybe I tell her
that I constantly read her body.
That I now know
how her breathing changes
when she wants it harder or gentler.
I know how her eyes change
when she wants to be dominated
When she wants to be coerced
When she wants to be held.
~
I can tell her
that I notice when her hand
guides me in one direction or another.
That when I sink my teeth into her thighs
I already know the tremors in her voice
between “never stop” and “too much”.
That I know which kiss means
“I’m yours”
and which kiss means “f**k me, raw”.
~
But I still want more time
to touch her
to hold her
to claim her.
~
Or maybe I answer honestly.
I don’t know how
Not yet
She is endlessly complex
she’s lived a life of love and trauma
intimacy and fear
long before I balanced her submissive needs
on the end of my tongue.
There is still so much to learn about her
for I haven’t filled her enough
haven’t been inside her for long enough
or deeply enough.
Haven’t watched her come enough.
~
I need more time.
