Impatience

Here, under older nervous hands,
you slowly let yourself the satisfaction
of a purr, take a whiff of nicotine flavoured
breath, and grimace in your sleep.
Taking these sinewed wrists into trembling
hands, I breathe uneasy, watching
over my shoulder for prying eyes.
They work overtime, past usual
hours of adult desire.
All the while, with stray dogs barking, I
whisper simply to myself untenable prayers.

When our blood has cooled, our bodies shall, too,
take respite from unequal, unintended promises
of eternal understanding. Till then, we wait, not without
impatience.