When A Lover Dreams – poem

I wrote this at some point. . . and forgot I had. Rediscovered it last week and while it could use some revising, I find myself holding my breath by the time I get to the end.

When a Lover Dreams

In this dream, (this fantasy),
I hear you walk into the room,
your tall black heels announcing
you are dressed for the occasion.
I don’t have to look up, (though I do), to know
though the hem almost brushes the hardwood
the silk of your dress will tease me;
it’s the hint I might catch a glimpse
of the silk of your skin, 
the almost endless slit to the hip
I imagine slides up your thigh when I lower you 
in a dip to the floor.
It doesn’t matter what you wear underneath,
(though I may hope I’ll find out later),
there’s no one else in this ballroom to see
and my eyes for now are locked to yours.
As the music begins to play this tango,
it doesn’t matter that your neckline
is always exactly as low as you’ve intended,
it’s pressed against mine and we begin to move
as one, ever so slowly, in time with the tempo,
then quick, quick, and a pause,
since we already need to catch our breath.

In this dream, (definitely a fantasy),
we dance, without words telling the story
the melody is begging us to tell.
We dance, a crescendo of passion and with a spin
and a sudden, unexpected movement I’ve trapped you<br style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; background-color: rgb(245,

245, 245); ” />
against the wall, your wrists in one hand 
while your fingers reach for the ceiling
and my own caress your cheek, lift up your chin, 
trail down your neck, down your side,
my lips so close when I breathe it’s your breath.

But remember, it’s a tale that we’re telling
and it wouldn’t do to give into temptation
so soon, so I whip, gently, into a corte,
my fingertips so close to fire
on the skin of your thigh, while your eyes
are hungry for mine and we create the perfect pose
for some imaginary photographer 
who will etch this moment in our minds.

It seems like forever, but it’s only been seconds,
a four count, an eight count, a teaspoon of measures
already overflowing with the building desire
which I would guess won’t end when the songs ends,
but ends when the dream ends, (the fantasy, really),
but how and when it comes to that end, well,
I’ll leave that to you.