Limits

The cold arrives, and with it, memories
of another crisp November day,
when we took turns warming icy-fingers,
sage-scented smoke settling over us,
it was only natural for you to wonder
why those shadows filled my eyes.
You joked, said we should be reckless,
and strip down to our secrets.
I thought it was quite risqué.
Then you asked to taste my tears,
but you were on a salt-free diet,
so not to desecrate your body,
that divine temple of chastity.
I unbuttoned my cotton blouse
so that you could see my breasts;
when you asked to touch my heart
I told a dirty joke, and laughed
to cover my surprise at your interest
in something so scarred, so hollow.

As you tried to see inside my skin
I let you touch my private parts.
With an amazing familiarity, or instinct,
your nimble fingers roved over me.
I gasped, as they pulled back the hood
from my budding, rose-tinted charade,
anxious to expose my truth.
While you rubbed, expectations
burgeoned, musky and sweet,
until your finger slipped even deeper.
Suddenly you were inside that space
I never allow anyone to touch.
You boldly probed that intimate nook
where she lives, the forever-fragile
child in her squeaky rocking chair, still
fearful of her Mother leaving her alone.


We never loved like that again:
Every girl has her limits.