A Cold Fog
When my desire to feel a man’s finger trace my spine,
to feel his lips on mine, to bring him pleasure in return –
when this desire goes unfulfilled,
the act of self-pleasure hangs like a cold fog on my heart.
I know that I could find release in a shadowed place
with whatever randy many I can find.
But this does nothing to lift the fog and brings its own disappointment
in the deeper need going once again unmet.
I tire of putting on a bright face to the lonely ache and
trying to dress up desire in the designer clothes of diversionary activity.
As I’ve said before I don’t feel needy in the sense of completion.
I am complete.
I am beautiful.
I am worthy of deep, pungent, wild, loving desire.
Not really solace or reassurance.
But I do know: soon.
He will appear, and he will be drawn to trace and nibble.
On me, here, now.
