She here, he there, victims of
gremlin mists that hide
their bodies from each other.
lust and longing,
are mysteries driven
by a witch’s curse
on their heated minds.
aching, willing breasts,
seen, but vaguely
through a steamy veil.
that shades too, the tumescent
promise of rampant shaft
or drizzling nectar of
willing, needful crevice
distance denies
fingers, lips and tongues
hot delights of touch and taste.
they are refused access
to such sensuous mysteries
of each other,
living in their pretend
world of salvia, roses and sycamore.
which only leads
to lonely beds
so far apart.
