Waiting, still.

Seeming shy, she scribbles secretly, silently, sequestered and solitary.

She smiles. Secrets can be sweetness;
sweet and safe, savory tidbits of scandal
to keep the excitement stoked.

With imprints of finger dents
travelling loose
through burst capillaries

your strength stains me.

Helpless to the thrill, aren’t we?
A bound-together “we”
made up of silent, anxious She.
Eyes round, trained on He and

you know that I am waiting,
patient, breath attuned
to you, and the strain you are creating -
the battle of focus and will -
and I am waiting, still.