This body is not my temple

On the sighs of the clock,
past midnight I recall

once more that this skin has not been touched
not caressed, left unloved for the sake of savoring

the minute for someone else
other hands, long lean fingers

that know too little than touch
know too much to keep in words, coded

desire, a swril of a tongue over
parts. I have told you that this body

is not my temple, nor yours,
not anyone's in fact, I am no shrine

to hang your incense, rub your wishes
hand you a coin over my hand

or even prevent my barren soul of inviting
a child between my ribs, pushed under my thighs

not much left for you to savor,
give me a hand to caress, I will send you away

with the ocean, kneeling at your fished out
feet, full of sand, damp on the edges
never owned, not gracefully obtained
this body, one, mine and yours.