Fantasies of a Mediocre Housewife

Asleep, I dream of you and burn with desire.
follow the damp foot prints that darken carpet
from the room where I lay in fitful slumber
across pale sierra tile, slick with droplets
fallen from my hair, as I have fallen
from grace. In the bathroom, sandstone
counters cleared of toiletries lie bare,
the floor covered. Ivy tumbles from sill
to creep across the room and hug the toilet.
bubbles still cling to the tub as your kisses
to my body. Smoke no longer curls
from snuffed candles to kiss the sky,
still the mountains burn. My nerves
are on fire, stimulated by the caress
of warm water and the memory of your hands.
Downstairs, dirty dishes wait, and in my hand
a novel of dark erotica and Pictish lords
with blue tattooed faces and your eyes
lies unfinished. Your number on my desk
bears testimony to the breathless message
on your machine, whispered on the heals
of imagined pleasure. At an impasse, I
desire only that which I can not have,
and dream of the impossible.