First Touch

Just call me Ms Romance…Most proud of?  There are so many people in my life that I am proud of, friends, family, my college class who took the first exam in our degree on Wednesday and of course my little boy Patrick, who continues to amaze and astound me every day.  Today though I thought I’d talk about the attribute I’m most proud of and that is the human capacity for love.I watch women every day who have emerged from tough relationships pretty war-torn.  For a while they shun any idea of trusting anyone or of being with another partner, sharing intimacies.  Sometimes they never change and the bitterness stays with them, but sometimes you see a glimmer, just a little twinkle shining out saying that they are ready.  It’s as if all of the crud remaining has been pushed and held under such emotional pressure, the remnants aren’t black but a precious diamond only to be given away to the right person.Don’t get me wrong, there are always those Bridget Jones-esque moments where they debate leaving food out for the Alsatians that will eventually consume their cold, unwanted corps.  But there’s no need to give up just yet.If they are anything like me, instead of dwelling on injustices done, they will find themselves remembering special moments, qualities, even just shared glances that remind them how amazing it is to be in love and to allow yourself to be loved in return.I know it is neither cool nor socially acceptable to be a hapless romantic.  Instead we devote our time to work, studies and family and, in my case, being professionally and impossibly sarcastic to any poor guy I happen to like.But I’m proud of the dreamy romantic who survives despite children’s midnight stomach bugs, financial stress, piles of washing and organizing parties for 6 year olds who enjoy trumping, chocolate and wrestling – in that order!I hope that I never see the end of day dreams, crushes and the hope for love.  On that note, today’s poem centres on that perfect moment, borne of longing and hope.
First Touch  A breath across the nape of my neck,A touch, so light,I barely notice its weight along my arm.Gasping, air seems thin,Unsubstantial, as if taken at great height.Your hands, rough and strong,Trace their way, leaving a blushed warm trailTingling in their wake.Fervent anticipation occupies my senses,Eyes closed, longing,Waiting for the gratifying moment so delayed,That it seems impossible.To me you are like opium to an addict.Your presence overwhelms meAnd as your grained fingers brush closerTo the center of my desireMy skin burns, my mind explodes shatteringInto dazzling stars,My hearts symphony rises to a thundering crescendoOf drums and cymbals.And finally, after an eternity, hours, minutes,I can melt into your arms.