Enfolded

There's ambrosia on the fringe of sin. Allow me in your arms to taste it. In your most delicate but intentional embrace, I'd find my heart's every rapture.

You would enfold me.

Stillness.
Oneness.
I'd mold to your calmative hands, tranquility suffusing.

We'd lie entwined, eyes closed, bodies firmly pressed.
Your fingers might find the small of my back. I'd feel the bubbling of heart-flutter, but never erotic.
I'm like a woman.
Your touch mellows and comforts and lifts. It won't ignite the buried splendors I fear, the exuberance of arousal and release.

I only want held, guarded, to feel breath and pulse and the quiet warmth of soothed ache.

So let's lie.
Simple.
Sound.
And put your temple to my cheek after I've kissed it.
(Maybe I'll hear your thoughts.)

Now cling tighter, and we'll be whole when the mountains topple.