A Cold Fog on My Heart

When my desire to feel a man’s finger trace my spine,

to feel his lips on mine,

to bring him pleasure in return –

when this desire goes unfulfilled,

the act of self-pleasure hangs like

a cold fog on my heart. 

I know that I could find release in a shadowed place

with whatever randy man I can find. 

But this does nothing to lift the fog and

brings its own disappointment

in the deeper need going once again unmet. 

I tire of putting on a bright face to the lonely ache and

trying to dress up desire in the designer clothes of diversionary activity.

As I’ve said before, I don’t feel needy in the sense of completion.

I am complete. 

I am beautiful. 

I am worthy of deep, pungent, wild, loving desire.

No need for solace or reassurance. 

But I do know:  soon.

He will appear,

and he will be drawn to trace and nibble. 

On me, here, now.


This is one of my original poems written for the passionate and the adventurous.

For more poetry, check out Sacred Hot Poetry.