With each other we have privacy but yet companionship.With each other we have privacy but yet companionship. The soft music of Chopin wafts through the room. I can barely hear your pen scratching on the paper as you write. How I enjoy watching you write. Your face mimics each word. Sometimes I wonder if you realize just how much you convey when you write. The expressions on your face tell the story -- the small frown when the line is not just right; the soft smile when suddenly all the words just appear on the paper. You glance up, and catch me watching you. Oh. When you smile at me that way! How I wish you could know the stirrings you create. I smile back, and pretend to get interested in my book again. Your poem is not complete. The time is not now for my desires to take form. Later. Meanwhile, the fire can warm me as my senses just contemplate our loving. And we will. Later. When the last word is written. When you have chosen to share your poem with me. Even that has become almost a form of fore-play between us. I become aware that I have turned many pages. What were the words on those pages? Do I care? My eyes were seeing, but my mind was not reading. Instead, it was dwelling on you. |