feverish with want
praying like a hardcore sinner
that someone might bend inside my
angles and shift against my planes
until we both feel that unmistakable
click that means we fit together
with the same dumb sudden luck
that drops an odd little puzzle piece
into a corner of a picture yet unseen.
You handle me with reverent fingers,
the thought of leaving makes me
more beautiful. Rising quietly,
you wrap me in an itchy Mexican blanket
to make up for the lost warmth of your body.
You pursue me in much the same way
a child might close in on a sandpiper.
But fragile creatures are the most skittish—
able to sense the slightest shift of air
perceive the tiniest darkening of shadow.
Fearing is a part of their nature
therefore they cannot be fooled
even by the gentlest of men.
© 2010 susan beck