the texture of a lover's arm

smooth and strong
from lifting a heart for life,
she lays in dreams
and I lay with my fingers
on the inside of her forearm,
playing it like a soft piano
for my own pleasure,
tickling the keys of now,
never forever.

run the river of skin,
vain veins underneath,
pumping blood to a heart
I hold so close,
no distance will feud,
no time will wash,
nothing is too much
to feel the mammal hairs
that raise in sensation.

subconscious servitude
to a body part
that gets overlooked
in the sexy realm,
but like the collar bone,
I cherish it more than sex itself,
because it is real and less fleeting
than a punch line.

when water runs down
in showering slow motion,
I watch and drink it in
for a now that must last
forever in fears of losing,
and she has no idea
the softness of her arm
inspires a poem in a bed
in a lodge hotel
on a simple TV morning.