i love to rub the small of his back &

glide my hand to the top of the crack

his skin is smooth and muscles taut,

yet none can see what is knot.

the shoulders carry the weight of his kin,

pressures threaten to do him in.

he hides the fears in the folds of his neck,

buries the ache and introspect.

no one knew Samson was weak

‘til one small hand reached to pique,

but the hand of love has healing power

to bolster any leaning tower.

this hand knows well what others see,

his eyes his smile are sweet to me,

but the sweetest is the chocolate silk.

it is the texture of his ilk

beneath the surface where all is calm.

i offer my touch as a sealing balm,

my hand will keep dissenters at bay

allow him respite from the fray.

keeping his soul and strength in tact,

my fingers glide along his back

from the nape of his neck to the top of his crack


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