touch

a hand on the small of my back
a firm thumb rubs
a small circle of warmth

subconsciously I tense,
and like rough, cold stones,
shoulder blades sharpen toward each other.

stiffly, I turn my neck
and place my hand on the bed,
a gingham quilt made by my mother.

I glance at the door, then
watch his face,
clear blue questioning.

"Does that really tickle?
You like to be in control, don't you?"
he grins, a straight row of white.

I think about the stone-cold walls,
and remember the leg massage from the other day.
"Don't you mind that I don't shave?"

he's good with his hands, maybe he can
help break the walls down.  for once.

I like to pretend to be easy going,
and glance at the pastel gingham.
I smile, too, and laugh.

my hand on the nape of his neck,
warm and smooth,
helps me forget about the cold stone for now.

12.12.02