The invisible curves which describe you have neither beginning nor end.
Each is different in its time and place
They exist at the end of my fingertips as it hovers above your skin
Only the whorl of my fingertip touches at the synapse of nerve ending
The caress begins at the nape of your neck
It continues the journey with no route map to follow
Only searching by instinct for those confluence of curves
Which beget shudders of delight

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