Some day maybe
you'll sing to me.
Not necessarily
to me specifically,
but I'll be
listening
and you'll be
singing.

Maybe in the shower,
maybe pulling in
the driveway
on your way home
from work.
My ear pressed to the door.

I want to see you
in the shower,
singing along.
I want to reach out
to the clear lining
and press it against
your naked, wet body.
I want to wrap you up
in that protective plastic,
and you won't miss a single note.
You'll keep singing and I'll caress
your every curve and mole.
My hands gliding up against
the smooth refined finish,
so gingerly sweeping
across all your bits.
Soapy and slippery.
So close but not.
Not quite touching.
Not quite real.
My skin isn't
something
that you'll
ever feel,
or feel
feeling
you.


Beauty encapsulated,
preserved in time and space.
The sound of falling water.
The blurry look on your face


is telling me to
Stop.


Your voice in my ears,
my make-believe dream.
You'll sing that you love me
and I'll wake with a scream.