I say I want, and wonder

what I mean. As if to speak

my longing could summon

what I seek. Foolish man;

over-fond; much too frank.

As if to say I love you

were money in the bank.

Presumption’s my secret

sin;  I say I want you

and wonder where you’ve

been. As if you wade,

like me

in hope. This dream of us,

a silly trope. 

It’s climate ripe, it’s beaches,

mild, as if my touch

could tame your wild.

The cost of consanguinity’s

too steep, and I, too shy

to match my yearning

to your desire.

Why can’t I partner my own sleep?

Who makes these straits so dire?