His Hands

Fontaine Aix en Provence

He holds her hand and she feels the heat in his palm.

Light fingers run down her spine and her skin tingles.
For what seems like hours he touches
And caresses in silence

Soft reed music and a waterfall
Converse in hushed tones
As his hands listen to her
They soothe. They stir nerve ends.

β€œTa peau est douce” he says quietly.
She smiles as all of her awareness
Gathers to the skin under his fingers


About emmylgant

Cloud watcher and dreamer sometimes wise, often foolish, but I am what I am.
This entry was posted in Life, Pandora's box, Poetry and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

13 Responses to His Hands

  1. Ouf, un peu torride, cherie!
    Mais tu ecris la magie, comme toujours.


  2. themodernidiot says:

    ooh la la


  3. makagutu says:

    I don’t think anything other than yes would be appropriate! I need to read more poetry


  4. john zande says:

    Yes, Please… It’s only polite πŸ™‚


  5. PapaBear says:

    …and I thought your only love was the Med ! This is beautiful, Emm. And, “yes” is quite appropriate, and enough.


Comments are closed.