fingerprints

I awoke this morning, dusted with the dew of
sweat-drenched sleep.
I was dreaming of your fingers,
the way they traced through lines and patterns
on my chest, pointing out a strong sternum
or attempting to discover the secret behind
ticklish spots, and failing.
I rolled around in bed for a time, unwilling to move
As long as I kept my eyes closed,
your hands were still on me, and
the way you touch me is unlike
any magic I dreamed possible.
Its familiar, but chaotically new and I’m
acclimating to the feel of this touch,
like a fish newly out of water, and realizing it can
still breathe.
You touch me like I’m sacred, but also like you
own me,
the sole guardian to secrets you can’t even begin
to imagine. Yet.

The truth is, I want to be covered in your fingerprints,
like a dusting of cool breeze on
white-hot fire.
And you, the magician, the goddess, the priest,
exploring like a roving conqueror, unaware that there will be
no resistance.

Except maybe for fun. Just to show me
your will, while I lose mine
in that touch.