Wistful fingers
Tickle the dark hairs
Below the shirt sleeve.
Brush the unknown.
Pondering so much, in one small movement.

Emboldened,
They roam the contours
Of your flesh;
Wondering,
Enjoying.

You signify permission
With your stillness, but
I cannot forget.

It cannot be brushed away so simply
I am not allowed
Even with your assent,
To pretend.

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