My fingertips are clean, like morning air,
As they begin to trace my collarbone.
I slide them down across the velvet fair,
Engaged in movements meant for me alone.
He stands frozen, trapped beside the door,
Forbidden from the space where I recline.
His heavy footsteps anchor to the floor,
Unable to disrupt this boundary line.
A shiver, light and slow across the room,
Like a gentle flow of whispers, soft and deep.
A silent mist that settles on the bloom,
Like a quiet tease before the world\'s asleep.
The motion makes the quiet music sing,
Unlocking tides of pure, unblemished light.
His gentle gaze becomes a pulling string,
Guiding my fingers in a rhythm bright.
I feel the velvet texture of the lace,
The smooth, unblemished surface of my wrist.
A surface cool and delicate in space,
That brightens in the morning\'s quiet mist.
My touch encounters textures soft and rare,
Like silk or petals brushed against the night.
An innocent discovery of prayer,
Enfolded in a pale and morning light.
His gaze is locked upon my moving hands,
The visual current pulling at his mind.
His soft attention dictates my commands,
Steering each trace and curve that he designed.
It lingers with a soft and freeing sigh,
As tenderly it dances with the air.
Led by the steady focus of his eye,
My hands obey the gravity held there.
Bound by the invisible commands,
I find a sweet delight beneath his gaze.
He moves my rhythm, navigates my hands,
Lost in a dreamy, sunlit winter haze.
He stands entirely still within the shade,
Forced to view the vision from afar.
His quiet mastery will never fade,
Proving how great and absolute he is.