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Hand Of The Fabric

Silk is woven sex…
let us start with
what it is not.
they are so very close,
so let me explain why it is
not like satin. 
for I have danced in both.

Satin is deliciously young
it is lust 
in sensual anticipation of 
tender with an urgency
the soft lingering of the hand 
against skin gaining heat
fingertips gliding with only faint
over the firm nipple
and downward 
gently across
the glorious contour of a waist.
it is the quiver of 
aware and 
as it follows the form 
toward the hip 
then caresses the thighs
warm, meant to yield
as it falls to the floor. 
it is pleasure
and it is want 
woven in abundance.
that is satin.
and its feel is always desire,
but it is not silk.

Silk is magnificence.
mystery and mature 
its sense of self 
is elegant in its caress 
woven as a thousand tiny cool kisses 
laying against a hot skin 
set to ignite. 
as knowing touch 
cascading in all directions
across every curve
in smooth sensation
met by, not a quiver but,
a tremble 
the awakening of every nerve
willing to yield
each cell wanting to be found
as the breast gently heaves 
to meet its graceful embrace 
the back arches 
the limbs gather it in closer.
it is more generous
flows slower than satin
across the form
as it understands the longing
at the nap of a neck 
as well as it knows
the bountiful journey 
from ankle 
to inner thigh
slinks over every inch 
as if alive 
gathering static
the body becomes electric.
silk is woven crescendo.
I know the hand of both
and the latter is the feel of a Tango
while being wrapped
in eternity.
as satin is not like silk…
and I have danced in both.

©j.littlejohn 2017

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