love speakeasy

I crave your hands — the nearness of you — your smile.

This is how you love me:

The firm pressure of your grip, asserting presence,

I blush — succumb to the 

pulsating heat of your weight.

In your absence, my eyes trace the invisible handprints of your touch (you grip my neck like a cup; a single palm between my chest)

Beneath the earth of my flesh,

your scent rises and  lingers above my own.

You smile — (in my heart) — stretching it beyond my ribs to my fingertips.

I crave the nearness of you.

These things: my thoughts of you, the sunshine of your smile, the memory of your hands, that familiar fragrance in the air — they are but mere shadows of your tenderness, enough to see me through the day.

Baby, I am happy.