A Wigwam for a Goose's Bridle

You kiss me

in my overactive imagination

and the frisson of desire

ignites my lips

cascades down my spine

and sparks a fire pit deep within me,

and this blazing lust

awakens every cell

until my whole being is whispering

your name

in sweet agony,

and yet, you do not kiss me.

You sit there, across the table

that might well be an ocean,

and we talk of mutual friends,

the weather, the book I loaned you

that sits on your nightstand still

patiently awaiting your touch,

and we both know it will be months

before you find the time to pick it up,

and with bitterness I realise

you will caress its pages 

well before you ever caress me,

if you ever caress me.

I crave the intimacy of your skin

on mine, your breath on my neck,

your hands firm yet gentle as they search

my curves for meaning and pleasure

as though I were braille and this 

was the only way you could read me,

and I know I would melt

beneath your flame, submit

to the whim of your touch

until the explosive denouement

reduced my fears and insecurities to ashes

from which I might rise anew.

I wonder if your imagination

holds a candle to mine.