Strange, the way
my brain grows hot,
like a radio with fried wiring
until all I can hear
is you.

I long to see you, too
so I study your image
for hours at a time,
aiming to embed
your visage into my retinas.

Your features remain elusive
as if I'm looking at you
through a film of water.
Behind my closed eyelids,
your face blurs and wavers.

Far easier to picture
are the other women.
I can't refrain
from touching myself
while imagining you with them.

I'm a masturbatory voyeur
of the sleaziest kind
yet I get the feeling
you wouldn't mind
being watched and admired.

Only after you've switched
from brute to lover
at day's end do I pray
you'll find a sliver of desire
left over for me.