I think of the things I’d like to say to you when you’re standing in front of me, mere feet away.
In all honesty, I’d probably be too shy or chagrined at myself or overwhelmingly smitten by your presence to say anything at all.
But I still think up of all the craziest poetic statements I’d want to say to your face just to watch your expression change from that solemn one to that amused one to that wild one. All that change, all that dynamic combustion of emotions you feel and that I, in my own way, compelled.
I’d tell you, I want your lips tattooed to the side on my neck – here, just where the curtain of my hair courts the crook where my shoulder ends at my irresistibility begins.
I’d tell you, I want those sinewy hands on my hips, those pianist fingers digging into my flesh, that fanned stance you’d assume as if in the middle of a dance where you dip me and I cling to your deceptively muscular form. And you smile, a smooth deceptively calculating spread of victory when the surface of the table miraculously lends credence to the arch of my back.
You brought me here. You do me here. I’m at your bidding and you know it. So release that Irish wilderness all over me. Whip up a ginger storm and ravage my clover field. Unchain that ancient beast to claim my bare territory. Do unto me as the Celtic melodies do at the very depths of the crashing sea and consume me, Bill.
“I’m ready. Take me.”