And then there was a scar that ran across the back of your palm,
It spoke of stories that were yet to be told.
A reminder of pain that seemed so deep,
Induced a sudden impulse to cradle and to hold.
And then there were the tips of your fingers,
Drawing patterns absentmindedly across the smooth surface.
Brought to mind dreams and thoughts,
Of them lazily caressing lips to trace.
And then there was the freckle screaming proud,
A glaring imperfection, yet dangerously sensual.
A thousand stories could be weaved around it
By a wanton heart behaving utterly insensible.
And then there was the way you cast your gaze,
A coldness so chilling that it could cause a fire.
A deep scarlet blush was the only indication,
Unaware you were, of all my desire.
And then I knew your eyes were like a hundred smouldering suns,
As sinful as molten chocolate between my fingers.
If you asked I would let you shatter me to pieces,
But forbidden you remain, only my desire lingers…