Lust

I had a thought about you.



We were sitting across from one another, not speaking of it.



The it in our eyes, the it that lay in front of us on the cafe table.



We spoke of George Bernard Shaw's determination as he wrote quietly in that library in that small town where everyone considered him an eccentric freeloader who would never amount to anything.



I admired his determination as I admired you while you shared your thoughts on it.



My mind caught pieces of your intelligent comments in between thoughts of you not across a cafe table, of thoughts of you across my bed in the morning talking -

afterwards about determination.



My desire is a pebble that skips across still water

my face won't betray me . . . calm with a polite smile that appears with the appropriate cues.

in that span of time, before your arrival and after I watch you go, I begin to wonder



I wonder if this strong impulse to touch and to feel your body against mine could be more than that dirty four-letter word we hear so often




I wonder in between our conversations about Charles Laughton - did he direct this or that? -

if I could make you fall in love with me and not just because we share a similar aesthetic


or because I remind you of something you loved once.

or maybe, it is just that
that four-letter word so powerful we daren't even utter it.
lust
yeah, i said it