Circles on My Skin

I’m sure he touched me in the beginning.

 

I’m sure he made circles on my skin,
like you did…
maybe three hours ago.

I’m sure he kissed me whenever he could,
at one time.
Not because I sat up and not because I smiled.
Not because I looked cute for a second and
he wanted to savor that moment in time.

I’m sure he smiled stupidly,
(I still remember his head on my pillow);
but I can’t name a moment where that ended.
Yet I can remember the way your eyes crinkle in the corner,
and I’m dying to know what’s on
your mind.

For some reason,
though I’m sure he did all these things,

when your fingers graze my knee,
when you grab my hand,
or cup my face in your palms,
when you run your fingers through my hair,
and when you pull back smiling from a kiss…

I can’t remember when.

I’m fascinated that you touch me
whenever you can.
That even on Sunday,
you leaned back into me just for some
sort of contact.

It amazes that if I’m near you
your thumb is running over
my stomach,
my hip,
or whatever skin is exposed,
even the curve of my jaw.
That,
to you it’s all natural.

I’m enthralled,

That you easily grab me from behind,
that you don’t ask permission,
and just hold me tight.

And I’m sure,
I’m 80% positive,
he touched me in the beginning
(though I had to grab his hand first).

But when you reach for my hand,
as soon as I sit down,
I have to let you know:
I’m practically yours.

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