(c) Nicole F. Hall 2003
Tickly. Playful. Wrestling.
Desperation.
Content. Safe. Stable. Loving.
Sensual. Spooning.
Smothering.
Healing. Nurturing.
Satisfying.
Endless.
Hugs.
Great big ol' bear hugs that never let me go.
Hugs that speak of how you love me so.
Hugs that given without wanting in return.
Hugs that indicate for only me you yearn.
Hugs.
I love hugs.
If hugs were currency, I'd be living in poverty.
A cardboard box with a little window flap cut in the side.
A dirty, worn blanket makes the foundation of my floor
and my skadly dressed neighbor is a two-bit whore.
Drafty and damp, peering in windows of the rich,
I see the husband of the wife, who has a sexual itch.
He holds her and adorns her as if she is his own,
he loves her and caresses her inside this wealthy home.
Little does he know, she is not this awesome prize,
for in her stories of lunch with friends, harbors her little tramp lies.
And here I am within my box, as faithful as a saint,
sitting outside all alone with no hugs as my restraint.
My sanity spirals out of control begging for human touch,
all I want is one genuine hug or is that asking for too much?