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.