The Presence

His presence, a ghost
haunting my nights, trailing
after shave mingled with pipe smoke
and laughter through my dreams
and yet we’d never met.
Desire could only paint his face,
delirium his eyes and carnality
conjure up a perfect body designed for pleasure.
A voice I’d never heard
urged me on to higher plains
while unfamiliar phantom hands held me there
for hours leaving me breathless.
No canvas, no photography
could record this shadow visit.
He left no evidence behind
except this seed of longing
never to reach fruition
and the sweet memory.

Survivor poem - poet's choice - trigger 13 #2