Unspilt

The pale silken ribbon of her body
Is draped carelessly in slumber
Across the wrinkled surface of an unmade bed.

Spilt milk gleams invitingly, saturated
In the moonlight streaming over her
Like an accidental comforter in strange light.

Quiet ripples and waves are the contours
Of a warm smooth body, and the drowsy
Currents stir her liquid form in cat-like sleep.

In me, awake yet hypnotized, a thought
Of tongue and lips and skin and teeth
Incites my unease to spite me with this

Delicious imagery. A breathless flutter inside
Coats my tongue with the sticky paint of
Aching discontent and salty thirst,

Enticing me to wish for what may please
This hunger, ill wishes to let spill
Between us, a thrill of bubbling pleasure,

And dispel with gasps of quenched thirst
The heavy-sleeping quiet undesiring of me –
But milk only ever inspires thirst.

Instead I mould my solid bones into some
Resemblance, a mocking imitation of rest,
Beside her peaceful naked contentment.

Bottled desires and emotions remain unspilt
And unshared: a solitary knowledge.
This milk shall never pass my lips.

Eyes closing, the ironically mundane is left
Untasted, with a resignation to let thirst reign
Because there really is no use in crying.