five minutes

Sometimes her presence is so vivid.  As if a portal opened and we are somehow right next to each other.  She is in the front of my mind, bearing gravity or is it magnetism upon my attention, my emotions.  And it whets the appetite.  It whittles away mundane, striking then hewing  then carving then sanding, down and down.  Until I am lithe, svelte.  Hard. 

I try to stay present, but she moves toward me.  My awareness fixt but flowing.  What is the word?  To both need and not need.  To want so much it feels like need.  That she would stand next to me. Or sit on my lap.  Playful.  Happy.  Intoxicated with it as I am.  Fully clothed because it isn't exactly sex.  It's sexual, but that's a mere mist of the whole essence.  To call it that is to simmer down. 

I could transmit it all in a kiss.  Not technically one kiss, because I'd draw back to look at her lips, of course, and her eyes.  The rough impatient intensity and the depth of tenderness and the bruising ache of passionate love.  I'd say five minutes would do it.  We're talking minimums not ideals.  Ideally yes, I could take her and she would be open to me to all of this.  But I could communicate what I need to and garner some relief, if we don't count the catching one's breath, the full out coming down, yeah.  Five minutes.