An indistinct smell of wood primer
fills my bedroom as
glitzy images hover
above my head
of you,
wearing over-all's and painting
our picket fence
white.
It turns me on
and I start removing
my clothes,
alone,
though I want you
to be doing this
for me.
Increasing the pace
within minutes,
I touch myself
to the thought
of our first Christmas and
getting used to your shampoo.
Massaging every settled-in scar,
consenting to the electricity
passing through,
that make all of the
unresponsive parts of me,
finally,
effervescent and vigorous.
Envisioning us
making love at that waterfall and
now my fingers are soaked
but it should be yours
and I really want you
to be doing this for me.
Quivering and tearing up,
I have never felt so
satisfied and unruffled
having an ******
to the thought of a future
with you.
But Oh,
to lie down in bed at night,
alone,
without your hand in mine,
it forces me to love myself.
Even though,
I really, really
want you to be doing that for me.