This skin is a cover to a book you cannot open until I want to give you the key. It is a boundary, my boundary, for in this sacred home of body and brain, I live here. The fires are in the hearth, the lights are on and there is both beautiful music and aromas of home baking. Yet recall, that you cannot read my pages without my key.
There is a gentleness that lives beneath my skin, softly awaiting a kindred spirit to share its gentle ways. For love needs safe place to set down its anchor; and so for now it awaits as if gazing at the ocean waves for a ship to come.
The lover can talk through the skin, with a softness speak that wordless language of the soul.
My skin is the divine wrapping of earthen hue, yet it is I who say to whom my gifts belong or are owed. For to those I love, I am Santa, and ride every day of every year.