In silences between writing poetry,
I have often dreamed of you,
Of the if we could, of the might have been,
Indulging in the fantasy of loving you,
The intimate details of poetic seduction.
I've watched you drop your robe,
Immerse yourself slowly in your bath,
Take up the poetry written for you,
As the fingers of your other hand
Interpret physically the words on your lips.
I have heard the whispers,
The sighs become moans,
As the water, swirled by your hand,
Bathed you in another way,
Sensations over your body,
Ending with cleansing moans,
And stifled ecstatic cries.
I've watched in that silent time
When you regained composure,
Returned to the controlled woman,
Who had made love to a poet's shade,
Wishing he was there to see.