She strolls through my dreams
and stirs me awake
with the want to write of her.
Yet pages remain blank
as the empty sheets
that know nothing of her.
She's left me with nothing beyond
phermonal first impressions
scraps of staccato conversation
and the residue of fingertip flirtation.
Like a painter dreaming in colour
confined to monochrome
I nurse an appetite whet for more.
She is an outlined tattoo on my skin,
her compelling contours
crying to convey their chromatic depth,
left temporarily empty except for expectation.
