The sigh of the leather couch whispers fresh
Where she had simmering sat, knee on knee.
Impassive wooden edge kissed her breast’s flesh
While full lips drew in a goblet’s sherry.
It has been hundred nights, why wait, you say
Such a delight is but a night’s mirage.
One night’s fate would be futile Fortune’s lay,
Sans one more from life’s diurnal melange.
So wait I will, living on recall’s fire,
Till Time shall yield to the tell of desire.