Note to Self

This evening, I will give thanks to

my metaphoric shield against insult,

keeper of blood and bone,

my skin.

When I am cold,

my pores tighten against the wind.

When I am hot,

they expand,

secreting salty water

to keep me cool.

As I bathe

I scrub at its flaws

with pumice-like roughness,

often forgetting the way

it soaks in the sun

turning me deeper brown

or exudes my scent.

When I walk

my thighs collide sweetly,

their soothing friction

a reminder

of pleasures to come.

Lest I take my skin for granted,

from now on

I vow

to always

touch it lightly.