The secret dance

I guide my hands

to the part of that tingle,

to a secret place of tender graze.

A gentle touch of pleasure 

like soft whispers 

in a hazy way of soft sleep.

Tingles begin to grow 

with each finger that dances beneath

a touch of pulsing desire blooms.

The softness fades into a rhythm,

deeper with each dance of the moment,

until that  pulse starts to race 

a storm of my own making of pleasure.