NightWatch

Soft the sound, almost unheard,
as if a kiss reluctantly released,
languid fingers rise from a hand
thrown jar striped ochre and blue.

Slithering through glistening dark,
fine curls, she again anoints dusky
rose labial petals; eager clitoral bud
asserting itself with desire's aroma.

Faint beads of perspiration dew upon
brow, and in the valley of breasts, along
trembling plains of belly, an answering
condensation forms from rising pulse.

Between tension quivering thighs, a
spring now less sluggishly flows to
feed the aching hunger of her passion's
flower whose scent is of salted honey.

Yet it is to her face I am drawn; even
at the edge of candle glow, planes of
of passion and power and...something
else, only she knows, are sharply defined.

Does she sense I watch her, if only in
mind's eye across distance that may be
no more than a door away or across the
sea? Is her faint smile a knowledge of me?

Deep breath she takes, a nightwind gasp; is
it anticipation or exasperation, perhaps
resignation, her hand waves away misty dreams,
gropes to find a device for quick release?

If I could but walk through shadow as I
trudge among dreams, would go to her
even now, wherever she be, to add my
touch, or perhaps merely watch.