scruff.

i pity he
who's chin
is not fruitful.

the bearded man
quiets the riotous
feminist in my chest;
suddenly,

i want to watch him
lift large objects,
operate heavy machinery,
cook naked.

i long for the brush
of his majestic scruff
'cross my tender cheeks,
a kiss with a tickle
and scratch,
the warmth that i cannot
(unfortunately)
supply myself.