Could I really answer the call,
Knowing that his voice would make me fall?
Even if all I could do was listen,
To everything he would be giving.

Anticipation building—this much is true.
What would he say? What would he do?
My heart begins to hunger,
Common sense becoming a blunder.

My soul begins to sway,
He will listen to my every breath as I play.
I know he has an epic imagination,
A voice so fluent, and without fragmentation.

I try to hold back, knowing it’s wrong,
But the beautiful ache within me becomes so strong.
My pleasure is in my hands,
My climax only at his willing command.

Perfect diction, and ever so humble,
There’s nothing more I want to do but crumble.
Every syllable drenched with hope,
Wishing I could slip over the slope.

The call comes to an end.
I can no longer pretend,
The truth of what I felt,
The bliss his voice just dealt.

The line goes silently still,
To remove my hand, I use all my will.
The phone lands on the bed,
As my arm cradles my head.

I lie—a quivering, messy puddle,
My mind a floating muddle.
I ache for that call,
Where I will eventually fall.