The Music Being Played

She stirs at my touch

My hand a feather

Tickling her sensibilities and arousing

The rest of her into breaths

That echo from her sighs

 

She arches to my fingertips

Hungry for their fire

And for the nurturing

She swears I bring at night

To replenish her soul

 

She wonders if this is

Just some erotic role-play

In which I indulge, and half-hears

My protests to the contrary

As we sip at the same Oasis

 

I am not permitted empathy;

It is the province of men

To be believed more for what they do

Then what they feel. And currents of

Old testosterone run riot through her memory

 

She only sees me when

I play at being male; it saddens her to think

I am one more in the pack; but I would argue,

Were argument permitted me,

That I can dance only to the music being played