again at your perimeter.
Not your fence, no,
I'm too high on pheromones
for that, I'm in the thrall of a rut,
and you're lights are on, a cruelty
to my denial. I paced your facade,
stepping on grass
so my boot heels will not give
me away. You're still awake- it is late,
why are you still awake. I willed you
to "Go to bed!", turn off the lights –
if you do, I could not intrude!
I would have to walk away,
defeated but not rejected. Slink
again to home and my cold bed
and wait for dawn’s pale light.
But your lights are on! And vibrating
under my skin is your active pulse.
Only these planks of wood and glass
separating yet again!
The only effort needed would be to mount
those hard spare steps and, head lowered,
knock like a pilgrim. And you - you, of course.
You being forgiving, you undoing
the locks and gathering me.
Gathering me for on the way to your door,
I have been born, torn, and with every step
pieces of me have been shed, stripped.
Nov 8, 2012
Written for a November Poem-A-Day challenge.