You hunch, tense, at your desk.
Lights off in the outer office, the terminal glow
parodies the blue light of a diner
reduced to a blue plate, like the leftover
dish still in the sink at 2 a.m.
I don’t care if it’s light or dark,
I can’t wait.
I want to start saying your name; I’m buttoned up,
pinned up, wound up, just to make you
work hard at the work at hand, and not
fast enough to stop me, either,
God, from grabbing at our clothes; too much is hidden.
If I fight to give it away, I fight
with all my heart.
Defeat is hard. I will betray you.
And if you were at last to lie—human, flawed—
next to me on this pillow,
shoulders and arms relaxed in sleep, exposed,
helpless, even—how could I endanger
that easy breathing, how send these light fingers
wandering down your belly under the covers?
Who’s perfect?
Merciless, I’d attack in an instant,
why dream I’d let you rest? Wake up! This night
is more than ours—I swear this night is mine.
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