The Only Skin

Photo by I.am_nah on Unsplash

My hands are dangerous things.

Vectors for a virus,

carriers of the crown,

separated to six feet.

Your skin is the only skin I touch.

My hands are my work and they crave knowledge.

I rest them on your face, your back, the curve of your skull.

Feed my nervous system this awareness of you.

Warm oils melting under my palms

traversing the smooth landscape of your shoulder —

deltoid, trapezius, over the clavicle

into the valley of your pectorals

pause to gather the thrum of your heartbeat.

Every receptor open — pressure, warmth, movement —

the only skin I touch

attention unfolding into infinite sensation.