Shameless and restless and far too clever,
it no longer waits for nightfall to dream of him.
Mid-afternoon it peels off his t-shirt,
inhales the bitter scent of his day,
presses close against his thudding heart.
It conjures his voice, makes him whisper words
I'll never hear -- Yeah? Yeah? You like that?
Attentive to every detail, it watches his eyes widen,
or flutter closed, hears him murmur
as lips graze his salty neck.
It guesses the weight of his body on mine,
strains against him as our legs entwine. Every gesture
it renders as if real, every glance, every gasp.
It invents whatever serves its ends,
ignores anything it pleases:
the months in which none of this really happened;
his stories about the women in his past;
the ring on his finger.