Waiting, wistful–no, wishful, willful, unwilling, willing perhaps in the window seat, I peek out at the shadows on the street, half expecting your innocent prance past the parked cars across, up the path.
I found your note tucked into the letter box, your invitation, I was here, meet me once more, tomorrow, noon. I am here.
I am here, black sheer stockings rolled up my shaved legs early in the day, garters catching the lace beneath the short skirt, someone saw, blushed, said nothing, carried on, then whispered, he’ll think of me.
Think of me, I know you would be with me, if… If days were longer, if we had the time, space, cherished moments, life itself, some other life. Days grow shorter in autumn, clearer, these blue moons so unusual, still another three years’ wait, I hear, so rare, so lovely, you could.
We could, you know. We could race up the stairs once again, and you could catch me, throw me to the bed and kiss me, yes. You could lay your head in my lap and close your eyes, drift off, then stretch high to lie beside me, hold me close, too close, so close. You could let me love you while you fuck me I fuck you you love me.
Or maybe you do, or did, or wanted to, or could have, or could never say, or never did, or did, or will, or perhaps it was simply fear, or desire, deferred.
To greet you here, love, noon, today, tomorrow, skin so sweet, so six a.m., so Saturday, so sleep, now, love, sleep.