“Touch”

This is my oldest poem I could find to date. September, I think.
It has been altered, edited to make it sound better, but it is still the same idea with alot of the same words:

I could feel the electricity,
through my jacket sleeve,
as I pressed my clothed hand into his,
letting this guide pull me along
to wherever he might wish.

The reluctance to drop his hand was unbearable,
but he made the first motion.

I remember my thoughts
spinning, unsure,
when he reached out to me.
Come now, he said,
and I marveled at his porcelain skin
before laying my hand in his
and following him after her.

Such a simple,
minute action
should not send me into such a hyperly aware,
smiling state.
But it did.
It was forbidden,
yet still I craved it.

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