HEM OF MY GARMENT

Slowly his hands touched the hem of my garment, 

No, not the long one you envisaged;

That other one; 

The kind that makes the priest rise up to a standing ovation.

That type which makes armies turn with a burning desire to touch.

Gradually he pulled me into that warm embrace;

That embrace which makes the rain green with envy at my wetness.

The feather light touches peaked my desire for his soft and full fledged well of intoxication.

The spark in his eyes was the lightening that bore into my soul.

The edges of my mounds quivered in anticipation;

As my lips longed to finally salvage all the sweet juices of his being.