There is a book of poetry pressed into your stomach.
Its pages take your warmth from the line they have made above your navel.
I am jealous of that script.
How wonderful to be a sheet of parchment in that spine -
What joy to take what was in you for its own.
Given the chance, I would seize it too.
Grip your heat like a hand that slips between your legs –
Grasping past slick thighs on wet denim.
Shorts that will soon be removed.
Yet I must wait.
You are framed in a sofa, and I –  
I am prostrate on the floor.
This is the wrong floor.
Your sofa sits upon another.
I count three ice cubes in your whiskey, though it may be two.
Oh, to be that amber liquid sliding down your throat.
Closer than the pages, but cooler than your *** –
Though just as wet.
A portrait of divine grace, you make me seek religion.
I find it in the small of your back and in the curling of your toes –
When you curve into my eagerness.
Dust will settle on the glass as it hangs upon my wall.
I will trace your frame with a finger –
Trailing lines that seek direction.
Will you come for me?