My eyes, half-seeing, in the darkened room
      close to extinguish the foggy light
peeping in through the window

I am blind.

But my hands-
my hands see you lying there
with 20/20
and read over your body like braille

The hair freshly cut
on the back of your head
Synonymous softness
on your chest
your arms
your legs

My fingers read your warmth as “Welcome”
a comfortable couch to snuggle into
a tall glass of tea to be sipped
Your skin speaks to me in volumes:
Book 1: “Youthfulness”
Book 2: “Pleasure”
Book 3: “Playfulness”

Your lips, like romance novels,
tender under my touch,
part just enough
to let me in on your secrets

Goosebumps (like little sisters) tell on you-
give away your hidden meaning
in tangible moans
as I count them-
against your will

The braille of your body – vast volumes
too thick & numerous-
a library too expansive
for my hands to translate unassisted.

So I call for backup
from other parts
& index:
Every page
Every line
Every word-
      by touch alone

This poem is a true story. I drafted the bulk of it in my head while tracing the skin of a lover one morning. The light was streaming in the window. My lover’s chest was rising and falling in the easy breath of sleep. I simply enjoyed the play of light and shadow, reading the lines with my fingers, interpretin the sensation of touch into words, writing poetry in my head.