Will she touch me this morning, he wonders.
She looks preoccupied, stares into space, moves like a robot,
Reaches for coffee and sugar.
Her gestures are a ritual, a prelude to her day,
The opening ceremony to a game no one watches.
Will she touch me this morning?
Will her fingers run down my spine?
Will she move me; make me sigh and whisper,
Cross a line into her world, into her mind?
Will she hold me as if I were her lifeline,
The hero of her dreams, the presence in her hand?
Will she touch me and bring her lips to my silver head,
Sending warmth through my body,
Infusing life and rhythms I haven’t felt before?
He lays before her; strong, solid, silent, expectant,
His appeal undeniable.
A gleam of blue stirs her desire.
Deliberately she reaches, touches him,
Runs one finger on his smooth skin, along his scars.
He feels a pulse soar between them
And readies for the dance.
She unscrews the silver cap of her blue fountain pen
Holds his shoulders above the nib,
Leads him to the white sheet of paper
And they merge into one.