Lustful arms trace memorised patterns in the dark,
Imagine- imagine if they were all lit up
like those little fireworks,
you know the ones.
The ones that go flash,
sparkle, pop, whirl,
And that colour?
The colour your dazzled eyes see,
left hanging in the air?
That's the place you feel the beautiful phantom sensation,
even though the fire and heat and brightness has moved elsewhere.
Your body is liquid there,
transformed by your lover's hands.
You spill and flow and trickle over him,
you're two immiscible fluids,
never mixing into one but always in complete contact.
Nerve ends dance and sway,
electrified and charged,
through you they send shivers of feverish desire,
wanting, lusting, craving more.
They want to be set on fire,
bathed in ice-water,
singed and frozen and scorched and chilled.
But only by him.
They cling to the memory of his hands,
recreating that caress and that stroke,
until it becomes their recurring nightmare.
They do not want a phantom touch,
They want his touch.