Touch (free-form poetry)

She believes in touch.
Craves it.
Loves to give the gift.
Freely.
Of touch.

She moves from behind,
hands reach under a thin T-shirt.
And slowly caresses.
Shoulders.
Arms.
A bit of a scratch (she asked, and I gladly give up my secrets),
Nails rake a trail up my spine
and I arch, cat-like, automatic.
Hands wander to my chest,
and she rests her head in the curve of my neck.
Light kisses,
on ears (who can resist?)
A sigh, small and delicate, escapes her.

At times, she slips her hand to mine
entwines my fingers to her own,
fingertips to fingertips.
Traces knuckles with thumb and forefinger,
And laughs at my soft hands.

In bed, her hand traces figure eights on my chest
Wispy, like a walk through spider webs, it raises goose flesh.
And it is I who sighs.
Cooing, really.
At the power of her touch.