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. PapaBear says:

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


  2. john zande says:

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


  3. makagutu says:

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


  4. themodernidiot says:

    ooh la la


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


Say something, please.

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s