Touch

Some people do not wish
to be touched, and that is fine.

The crawl of a hand across skin
with its company of trailing fingers

may tempt out terror, may unearth 
memories better kept buried.

But I long for a teasing touch.
As if making up for a life of lost time

I beg to be submerged deep beneath 
sensory overload, until the raw highways

of my nerves are aflame from
fingers and sex struck together like tinder

all singing songs ravenous
with a want so strong, it threatens

to break my back
when the fire finally ignites from within.