My heartbeats measure the night.
How many weeks now has sleep mocked me?
How many months?
Late in the breathing hours when
My blood’s rhythm drowns my mind,
When I softly touch oblivion –
My hands betray me.
Through my fingertips pulses
The feel of you;
My treacherous hands throb down your body
Until their aching need pervades my thighs –
My heart – my soul.
But I have nothing –
Only the feel of you in my fingers.
Cynthia Buell Thomas
Wonderful poem from a fellow poetess whose profile can be found below on Write Out Loud: