Little Lion, by Zoe N.

Hands, slender, free of flaws,
Occasional bruise.
Velvet skin wrapping bones
Structured fine.

Smoothly sifting through hair
Searching for no end.
Moving from fingers to scalp
To fingers to flesh.

Fingertips of Little Lion
Prowling through a jungle
Of tangled hair
And consumed thoughts.

Downward, to a freckled back,
Grazing shoulders, wracked
With the dull pains of the day
Hands will mend.

If I could
Let these hands, Go
Infinite. Never stopping.
Please?

A loosened grip, my plea denied.
Hands resume, casually.
My Little Lion
Answers.