Maybe rough.
Maybe smooth.
Or
rippled
with sharp edged
waves.
Surfaces that are potted with
dips and concaves.
Wrinkles and creases,
the softness of fur,
the sheer bliss
that you find
your hands can incur.
The experience of texture,
the relish of touch.
There is no possible way
to be exposed
to too much.
YOU ARE READING
A poem per day
PoetryA place for poems. One year. 365 poems. A challenge, a journey - a quest to be a better writer.
