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Green eyes and soft lips are the beginning of you, but it’s the sound of your voice and what you can do with your hands that’s the end of me. Yes, sir. I will sit down as you have calmly asked me. Yes, sir. I can look at you with unquestionable longing to be overcome by you again and again, as you sit in your chair.

I want to be your seat and you can be mine. I want to be intertwined.

It’s the drawl in your voice and the way it populates my bare flesh with goosebumps. It’s the stroke of your brush and the way your wrists affects its tip with precision. It’s the manly curves in your shoulders and back that I study as you study your work. The way your long hair falls onto those same shoulders from underneath your baseball cap. I’m watching you watching your paint and your hands.

I’m watching your hands. I’m falling.

It’s your smile at the coffee shop. It’s your fingertip encircling a hot cup of joe with one lucky plastic lid. It turns me on when you tinker with the knobs on the dashboard of my car.

Let me pray to go to heaven in your arms and to return as one of your paintbrushes. Let me sit and watch for hours as you smooth oils over canvas. Let me not whistle while I work, but hustle to be your woman. Blues and greens and shapes come to life, like my body when finally touched by you. Under your skilled touch, I’m another woman.

The coffee is the only thing too hot to touch in this portrait. I’m cool outside and warm inside. I’m watching still in my mind.

I’m waiting for another touch.