Tingle

It came as a surprise
That my most ticklish spot
Is my hands
I discovered it at work
While lost in thought
As languid fingers traced a map
On my palm
Where ridges rise and fall
Like crests and troughs
And in the blazing wake
of exploring fingers
is a burning trail
That aches and tickles
In a sweet discomfort

I traced the outline of my hand
Until I reached the borders
of the sensation
losing the electricity
the shaking vibration
that races at the surface
Pulled from somewhere
mysterious in me

It's a warm, sweet tickle
That starts at the palm
and turns to a hearty laugh
as it edges from my thumb
It lights up where my fingers join my hand
Quiets at the stalks of them
And breaks out again
but ceases at my finger tips

Where my thumb faces my fingers
The tickle is dead
It lives on the outer side
of the digit instead
And a curious swipe
along the back of each finger
reveals a nervous shout of tingles
Along the skin so pale
that culminates in a synapses' kiss
just before reaching the nail

And when the inquiring fingers retire
The sensation lingers on my porcelain skin
A squirming tingle that I wish to stop
and at the same time, wish to start again




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All art and copy is the sole property of me, Liz Rector. And cannot be reproduced without permission.