clamy fingers roam like clockwork,
slow circles pointing needles into thighs.
there's a hazy summer storm in the works;
he surrounded like a humid august afternoon,
clouds rolling in thick like molasses.
oh, but his hands like to glide like lightning,
electric fingers trapezing burnt skin, a push
and pull - a simple caress made to cause aftershocks.
mmhm, sweat never looked so good:
sliding down the expanse of his throat,
to land in between collar bones, eyes
he, a tornado waiting to touch down.