Your skin is mine by rights.
And so is the smell of it.
And when your skin matures into the lips, the line distinguishing lips from the rest, is also mine.
And when skin is pouting, swollen into a pair of luscious lips, the sight of the pout is mine.
And when skin reaches the rim of lids holding your eyeballs, the crows’ feet under your magnificent eyes is mine.
And when skin seeps up to the hairline, anywhere over the area of your fragile skull it covers, is mine.
And when from up there spreads down and drapes round your shoulders; underarms; small of the back; your ass, the whole mound; thighs, down to the shins, the sole of your foot faced-up, all those gently wiggling toes, it’s mine.
Where the skin curves up beneath your nails to come out on the other side, it’s mine, by rights.
You share with me what’s yours.
I will be gentle. Wont tear it open. Not even when dead drunk.
What’s under your skin