Skin Hunger

When you go months without touch, a warm breeze can work wonders in your hair, on your skin, for your soul…

your soft fingers feather through
my hair           rustle
my leaves        absorb the dew
of this day, of the long walk
to get here

months to get here, many walls
my skin           drifting
my pores         open like a dog’s nose
taking it all in, every scent
you bring me

your breath billows my shirt
my sail            wide
my heart          is a lung breathing
again after a cold, still sorrow
of fingers

retracted into crumpled claws
my body          silent
the hair            on my skin flat
without your breeze, asking when
begging please