Anticipation is love’s better part
that never disappoints, can never fade
because unclimaxed. It remains afraid
that fear adds urgency to beating heart
to shuddering cunt. I know the taste of skin
your hand or cheek or neck, but not your thigh
against mine, or the blinking of your eye
on the next pillow; know the mischief grin
you tease your lovers with. Have stroked your hair.
There may be nothing more. This is enough
for poetry is made of flimsy stuff,
of hints and promises. It may not bear
wet heat, fingers inside, sweat pooled on small
of back, dark harmonies that peak then fall.