Thought-process

The days begin with punctured
silence. In my head, I expect
thoughts to infuse with reality
but they don't. I keep midnight
memorabilia clinking instead.
Glass doors reflecting your outline,
sloping shoulders and warm neck;
matte-finished, the sheen of
sweat covers you a little. The 
imagined airtight tension
flickers slightly in my head,
I think I need a few more hours 
of sleep. But I don't, the day
looms before me, windingly 
long as I count hours off on
ticking watches. Then it flashes
again, thunderous imprint of 
your smile (or what it feels)
electric running in my chest;
I think of other things, like deadlines,
life-goals, money, or old people.
You persist. Mocha eyes and silken
ties dangle in memory of coffee-skin
and smooth plains of heat melting
into my every drop.