The trees have kept some lingering sun in their branches, <br />Veiled like a woman, evoking another time, <br />The twilight passes, weeping. My fingers climb, <br />Trembling, provocative, the line of your haunches. <br /> <br />My ingenious fingers wait when they have found <br />The petal flesh beneath the robe they part. <br />How curious, complex, the touch, this subtle art-- <br />As the dream of fragrance, the miracle of sound. <br /> <br />I follow slowly the graceful contours of your hips, <br />The curves of your shoulders, your neck, your upappeased breasts. <br />In your white voluptuousness my desire rests, <br />Swooning, refusing itself the kisses of your lips.<br /><br />Renee Vivien<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-touch-11/
