a musing

O, the time for you approaches
and the heart jumps back and forth
and almost as though you were pressing
two moist fingers there my breath falters
at the base of my throat.
The mind recalls the last conversation and
a thousand pictures
(smile, eyes closed,
bent over to retrieve a fallen pen,
an elegant hand the vein wants me to touch it)
of you are hung all 'round.
The peculiar vibration
that belongs only to your voice is my
favorite sound second only to the shuffle of
your step just around the corner.
You smell of nothing in a world of odious aromas
and this pleases me in a way only I can know.
The time for you approaches but
the ache of seconds waiting watching
each one a pulse of delight.