Short poem about a sensation I've experienced a few times now. When I'm lying on a bed with a woman I've slept with the first time and I start fantasizing about them. The reality however is that it's just that...a fantasy in my head I'm cooking up in the euphoria of the moment, in the still of the night when the action of the evening and rencontre is over I realise I'm letting my romantic aspirations project all over the room and the evening and the future, diving on a perfect star star in what really is most lkely an ordinary night for the other party.

I imagine this to be something that both sexes go through. it's something that happens maybe only a handful of times in a lifetime and is almost never reciprocated since if it were the parties may just be in a relationship. In reality these flickering flames and burts of romantic energy fly out of control or succumb to the timid realities of our own imperfect personalities.

Under sober assessment it would appear that the only bedrock underlining such encounters is quite frankly the lump of bed onm which both are laying.