These golden hands fill crevices
like the space between embrace;
inching closer to coagulation,
wandering and whisping to a wanton oneness…
that only liquids know how to fake.
I force myself up to the wrist where I don’t belong,
my mark is left on everything that I touch,
my shimmer won’t dull under water or sun,
so take my hand in yours, princess,
be the container of my flow, princess,
but bring a towel for fun.
Men are all like this.