dirty sheets

Alone at his desk -

his hands breathe fire
and conjure up thoughts
of sweet desire; and things best done
on dirty sheets..

His hands are words
of Strong and True; they echo down the hall
and leave her to shuffle in restless sleep;

A belly ache
of breadth and width
and fingertips of glorious travel
down paths of lovers
long left standing in the rain..

In his hands
he holds her words
for perfect love.
   ..if only he could see her now..

She sounds them out in hours
and takes her own sweet time crying them apart
to form a single rose
that carries a certain ring to it..

one she misses -
as much as her dirty sheets.