He doesn’t draw me as this.
She appears to be sleeping.

Not hiding like me, from a light that’s too bright-
on a day that grew late without warning.

Her hand between thighs
seems to be still. And her smile whispers words for the taking.

Will they know when they see her, that those fingers
concealed, are already threaded with ***?

He doesn’t draw me as this.
Satisfied only to the point of frustration.

muse