Eight.

You
are in
everything
I write.

I am
searching
for your face
in a sea of thousands.

I don't know
where I'm going,
how I could possible find you,
or who you are.

There is a
string
between our hearts.

You are
pulling
mine in your direction.
I am merely a
puppet
to your desires.

I don't even
stand
a chance.

Seven. Something from my Hands (for You)

I'll follow you down the street
to your favorite club,
to watch you move -
a flip of your hair,
a shake of your waist,
a twirl of your skirt -
it's so breath-taking.

I'll watch from the bar,
I'll wait on your sidelines
to take you home
when you're done with
admiration.

I'll show you how I worship you-
with my fingers,
my hands,
my mouth -
all tracing my favorite shapes
on your smooth skin.

You'll dance for me
the way only I can make you.
You'll sigh in ecstasy
and I'll shiver when you thrust your hips.

They've seen you move,
but I watch you soar.
It's something so much more
than they can understand -
those club kids,
those junkies along the walls
following your every move,
hoping to take you home.

They don't understand that your gaze
is always mine,
that your body is my temple,
that they don't stand a chance.