She can find me

in my poems,

When she craves

my erect pen

during her day

and in her nights

She may look for me

in the noir veil of the fog,

But I am on

some foreign shore

She is

dominated

by a powerful lust

That she can’t control

While she weeps

she is

Waiting

Pining

For him

His nocturnal return

His fingers

On her frail shoulders

Controlling her burn

feeling His heat in her

The thought of it

It erupts her

She reaches out

to grab me

My stem twisting

the bouquet

of my arousal

as I bend

her body

to mine

For my pleasure

our ataraxia

Intoxicating

Like this evening’s

wine