Drenched in fear,  upon the couch,
Bathed in grayish glow
Watching some old Hitchcock flick,
Or maybe Edgar Poe
Silent breath,  with gaze transfixed -
Captive to the screen
Fingers take a yellow tint,
Glisten with that popcorn sheen
Breathing quickly joins the pulse
Of red-lined piston speed
Pause the flick,  refill your drink,
Continue with the scene
The witching hour births a yawn,
Followed by a stretch
Agile fingers take their cue
Searching for her luscious neck
With lips that hope to follow soon,
And maybe leave a mark
The movie ends,  the credits roll,
And yet,  the room remains as dark