POETRY: Creeping Hands

POETRY: Creeping Hands

I don’t want to bathe

It would mean washing your creeping hands off my body


Oh how they felt like the cops looking for finger prints


My nipples missed your hands…


And your lips…

on my back


Your Grip on my waist


I’m still Soaked and it’s not because I walked through a puddle to get home…


I can still taste your lip

They were the way I left them




Always beckoning on me to bite them


And  how they grazed my ears every time you whispered promises


While making me arch my back on the poker table

I don’t want to bathe

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