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
The iron of your biceps
The hair on your chest
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

© 2017 Christine Elizabeth Ray – All Rights Reserved