You want me
waiting for you in your bed,
clothes off, lips parted, and eyes wide,
at whatever hour you happen to get home from work.
Yet it takes you an average
of forty-eight to seventy-two hours
to find fifteen seconds
to reply to my irrelevant words
displayed on the screen of your cell phone.
You want to touch me
to squeeze and grab, caress, rub, and nestle into.
But the minute you feel my nails run across your skin,
it’s pause and hesitation,
stop and stall
and “don’t leave any marks,”
because god forbid she sees it.
You want to keep tabs on me.
Question me, accuse me,
don’t want anyone else’s hands on me,
yet you have no idea
the way my eyes sparkle
when the sun hits them just right,
because in all the months that I’ve known you,
you’ve never once
seen this face in the daylight.