Electric Closet

This is an experiment
in isolated pride.
Adorned in a jacket of tacks,
my senses are pricked
upon every touch
while I watch you.
I'm in limbo;
your moves are no more calculated
than my many attempts
at studying you.
My eyes follow
the traces of your tattoo
matched up with the outline of your hair,
calling to mind images
of a silhouette of you in the night.
As my hand trembles down my thigh
I steady my weight
and begin to address your presence
silently
with my imagination
driving the picture
that would repulse you
were it your reflection in the mirror.
Every boast becomes gospel;
every moan encouraging more.
Your breasts bounce and shake,
free from the imprisonment
that I've used to blindfold you
so as not to be encumbered
or distracted
by any vision of my physical manhandling.
The scene erupts in a glowing sea of pleasure
as our bodies rage
toward a moving climax.
Jolting wih fury,
our fertile cocktail is sampled
as we unwind out of each other
and refocus the lens we look at ourselves through.
You don't need to notice me there.
Respectfully and thankfully you don't.
I shuffle along in my confines,
immature and primatively.
With a pause and a sigh
you're gone,
and so is the power of a daydream.