I’m invisible, as if outside
the reach, the lens, of your camera—

I am a spoon to your spoon, your body
leaning away from me, your back
a concave arch, the glistening moon
pressed against me, your shoulders,
your head, against the shower wall.

Your face is mostly hidden, turned
and turning away, but frozen, glancing
back at our connection.  The steam
rises between us, around us, obscuring
the woman I would give anything–
am giving too much–
to know.

This is our truth in one photo:
A man, feeling unseen, feeling a ghost
while he begs to see more
of a woman
who holds him
outside the frame.

My hands grip your hips, unseen.
My hands glide heavily across the hot, wet
length of your torso, your breasts,
your throat, drawing you back against

me, whispering at your ear,
begging you let me inside,
you take me deeper, you let me see
who You are…

but you continue to twist in my hands,
bending away, your spine a slippery question,
your hair a serpentine secret, your curves
like unmarked paths through the jungles
of our interaction.

And every climax is a shot

stolen–

taken–

in the dark.