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
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.