She cuddles in me...

Next to my skin, is her abode…? My mistress
bids me take them; keep on doing, until evening
when I’ll brush her shoulders. At seven, I place my head
on her cool, white throat. All day I think of her,

Working in the Yellow Room, contemplating what
to tell her? She embraces herself
whilst I work willingly, her slow heat entering
my each sense. Slack on my heart, is her robe.

She’s beautiful. I dream about her
in my attic bed; picture her dancing
with me, puzzled by my faint, persistent scent
beneath her perfume, her milky stone stream.

I dust her feet with a rabbit’s foot,
watch the soft blush seep through her skin
like an indolent sigh. In her looking-glow
my lips part as though I want to speak.

Full moon. Her carriage brings her home. I see
er every movement in my head…. Talking,
taking off her jewels, her slim hand reaching
for the home’s nurture, the way

she always does…. And I lie here awake,
knowing the hands are cooling even now
in the room where my mistress sleeps. All night
I feel their absence and I burn.