I sit fascinated by the tenderness
in his voice as he speaks, imbibing
the curve of a woman's foot
with languid fantasy.
the arch is ivory silk
with feathered creases
to be lost in
His language a confabulation of hushed
words that lick all the angles turned
by her heel hanging over the bed's edge;
his smile overwhelms me.
heart strings plucked
with the simple curl
of her painted pink toes
Pleasure hangs on his lips like an epoch,
hands caress the solid air as if her foot
existed beneath his delicate fingers, as if
he could smell the jasmine lotion on her skin.
I slide my striped sock
over ankle, toe and heel.
I want him to tell my soul
Aleathia Drehmer 2009
Published by Sugar Mule 11/09