She here, he there, victims of

gremlin mists that hide

their bodies from each other.

lust and longing,

are mysteries driven

by a witch’s curse

on their heated minds.

aching, willing breasts,

seen, but vaguely

through a steamy veil.

that shades too, the tumescent

promise of rampant shaft

or drizzling nectar of

willing, needful crevice

distance denies

fingers, lips and tongues

hot delights of touch and taste.

they are refused access

to such sensuous mysteries

of each other,

living in their pretend

world of salvia, roses and sycamore.

which only leads

to lonely beds

so far apart.