The ceiling fan goes cn-ch cn-ch cn-ch.
Light through the blinds highlight dust motes.
The cat sits by the door, eye on the finch.
Simple things catch my thoughts.

I imagine your finger,
oh your fingers.
Running down my back,
and across my hips.
Gently brush my buttocks as
they slide down my thigh,
and cusp the back of my knee.

Tugging me closer to you,
drawing my knee above your hip.
I smell your skin,
it smelled like I always imagined.
Embarrassed of the intoxication of scent,
my hair falls over my warm face.

My knee is left cold,
your hand cradles my face for a
moment.
Pushing my hair away, I can not help but
be stayed by the passion in your eyes.
I sighed.
And finally opened my eyes.

The cat stares across the studio.
The finch had long flown away.
I stare at my empty bed.
**** these thoughts,
and **** the inability to cure them.
I know I could, but I would rather
have you do that.