It is rumored that

There are 50 words

In the Eskimo language

For snow

I ponder

Why are there not

50 words in the

English language

That I could draw upon

To describe

That moment

When your bare skin

Touches my bare skin

Many call me a writer, a poet

And yet words utterly fail me

When I try to capture

That first exquisite brush

Of contact

There should be

Words to convey

How many textures

A single human body can contain

From the smoothest silk

Of the insides of your arms

To the iron of your biceps

To the hair on your chest

To the calluses on your feet

When our legs brush

There should be

A whole new language

To describe

The warmth of your body

Under our sheets

Pressed up against mine

It is not just the heat

Of rising passion

It is also tender blush

That spreads from my cheeks

To my toes

Warmth that

Radiates outwards

Easing my winter chill

There should be

At least 50 words

To describe

The sensation of

Our mouths meeting

In the middle of the night

We have created

A symphony, a lilting duet

Between us

For lips and tongues and teeth

That has only been refined

Over the years

There should be

At least 50 words

In this inadequate

Mother tongue

For how the feel

Of your nakedness

Pressed reverently against mine

Our lips and hands

Entangled in each other

Takes me blessedly away

From the chaotic

Overpopulated city

Inside my head

Allowing me for a moment

Just to be



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