Chthonian Skin

If I could touch you now,

I’d touch your face,

find your cheek

pressed into a plum

when you smile

so softly.

The scent

the soft brush

the round curves

the raised coat

of your skin.

My skin crawls,

seeking touch.

To turn it off is futile.

Never turning the key - IS the key.

Mindfulness in the moment -Is the lock.

So lock it.

How can a hunger start so softly,

and reach so deeply,

through the surface of a well?

Foreign and unformed:

hidden

in chthonian skin.



But feeding or fasting,

will it abate,

negate

or satiate?


To live with crawling skin,

a hungry well,

takes an open heart:

Touch my heart, to quiet my head,

perhaps then I can think myself fed,

and lay my skin to rest

upon the memory of your chest.



.(Chthonic: of or relating to the underworld in pre-Apollonian religion, from earth-based religions.)