Nail Polish

A little poem about gentle touch and intimacy.

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You trace the skin of my hands.

A cool breeze washes over us.

Yet I feel on fire.

Your hair tosses freely,

As the smooth paint on your fingernails glides over my palms.

I shiver—but not from the cold.

But from the way you linger.

Our fingers intertwine,

A quiet pulse makes itself heard.

I turn your hand over in mine,

Tracing the lines on your palm,

Mapping the soft paths etched in your skin.

And for a moment, the world is only this—

The humming of wind through the trees,

As the world dissolves into touch.