Crawl Poem by Belle Violet

Your hands are like
spider fingers,
long and lingering
along my curves.
When they settle on my hips,
when they drift
to my spine,
and your mouth is already
tipping towards mine,
I can feel my stomach pulse
with love guts
so, looking up..

...you're looking down my shirt.

Oh, my beloved,
You hopeless f***n' perv.

I wish your eyes said
invite me
to bed.
I would have strutted upstairs,
with you on my tail,
and I'd have put those
spider fingers
to work.
I think you would find
that these hips of mine
need handling, at best;
they've been too long,
too restless,
and they'd help me
conquer and crawl.

If your hands can help it,
I wouldn't let me
over
your wall.