Inertia

I couldn't sleep without you there,
and so I tossed and turned
and waited,
finally drifting off
for a few superficial hours
with my eyes closed.

I didn't go deep enough
to dream,
instead...hovering in a state of
restless expectancy,
my skin agitated,
my sex aching.

At dawn,
you entered the room,
took off your clothes,
and slipped in behind me,
conforming your body
to mine.

You fell asleep
before I had a chance
to satisfy
my curiosity:
if I came,
would I be able
to dream?

I rose with the sun,
spent the morning
immersed in coffee and words.

When you woke,
sleepy and apologetic,
I didn't have the heart
to express my disappointment.

But tonight,
alone again,
nursing the dismal prospect
of our cavernous bed,
I cannot help but
wish I were bound,
your limbs holding down
a body that would not dare to move.

Imprisoned inertia:
my mind cries out,
but my lips and body
wait for your touch
to set them in motion.

I am imprisoned
by my own inability
to speak.

Your restraining grasp
is the master key
to my release.

I didn't request permission to masturbate last night.  I didn't even contact you.  A small defiance pooled beneath my skin, and I wondered why I should have to...when you were home...working in the shop on your bike.  The child in me felt like breaking the rule because it seemed as if the rule was null and void, since you were home.  I completely understand if you feel the need to dole out a consequence.  I will seek permission tonight.

P.S.  It was nice sleeping in with you this morning...even if you fell asleep before we could have sex.

P.P.S.  Hopefully tomorrow morning...things will work out differently.