Mind spirals spirals round and around, circles in the sand and circles in the forest, as I find myself walking down my own garden path: my eyes are tired and tender from too much (sun)light; I'm a winter person and am anxious at the upcoming assault of my senses: too much heat and too much light for months to come (summer's two months, still, from its peak, not to even mention the 1000-ton heat that oppresses from January, that presses my leaves and soon-to-be-dead flowers.
I long for coolness, white feet and blonde hairs, untouched by the sun: to stroke and maybe ruffle soft and golden arm hair, to tweak and squeeze an ear lobe, fine-fine hairs, to pinch the webs between solitary fingers on calloused-cut hands and the amphibian webs between toes on mouthfuls of erotic feet.
I long for the coolness of the pond, beneath the fern fronds and under the rocks, resting amongst peaceful nature's quick-witted tadpoles and angel fish.
skin-on-skin. and peace. and rest. i'm longing for right now.
I'm weary and wary.
The lee of an arm to rest in, for now, at least, or longer.
I'm weary and wary.
May I rest / may I relinquish control / for a short while at least / ?
Erotic, too.
(But it's not all about me.)
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