They are a voice half-heard when half-awake
or reading. They are the echo in the street
of high heels in the distance, high-arched feet
that touch mine in the night and seem to take
up half an empty bed. I'm fever hot
with yearning. When I think of lovers dead,
soft skin stroke, witty words are in my head.
But when I think of these loves, they are not.
We never met. I know they don't exist.
Although I know how cotton sheets would drape
across their legs, or how they'd suck a grape
skinless, as forceful as the night we kissed.
I've held my muse's hand, felt our lips touch –
not mine, she's still warm flesh compared to such.