A goddess carved in stone,
yet carved from living rock.
Instead of cold, hard marble though,
this stone will yield to my touch.
Soft, warm, pliant… I imagine.

For I do not have the exquisite luxury of that
tactile feedback I so desire with you.
My hand cannot absently stray to yours,
fingers running up your arm,
senses aflame.

As a historian sifts through the past,
so do I, paging through picture books,
reading snippets of conversations part,
enjoying the often tinny sound of a recorded voice,
constructing a wanted, yet false set of presumably shared memories.

My view of you is simply two-dimensional,
but my imagination takes hold.
In my mind’s eye you are fluid and wave-like,
passing gently over me and through me like a spirit
leaving traces… touches… fingerprints on my soul.

I want to worship at the
temple that is your body,
with my gifts of a kiss and
my offering of a touch laid at your feet.
My sacrifice to you.

My goddess.