A second or two
My thumb on you
Soft,
Sweet
Yet painstakingly near.
Two steps back
One foot forward
Sweaty palms –
I remain calm.
I remain firm
But it burns.
… should it burn?
I grow thorns
In the night
When the scent
Of your lips float
And blind me.
Yes.
Blind me
With the wicked curve
Your arrogance
Is breathing.
Imprisoned,
I am enslaved,
Finally,
Truthfully,
Wholeheartedly –
As when the voice
Of your touch,
Alas,
Faintly whispers,
“come.”