Loves Of My Love

With her eyes, she asks so much of me. Her hands, unsteady in a rush.
Watching her fingers, rising to her weakness, beckoning all I can afford,
yet, being here for her is all that I can do.
These yearnings in which I find myself in attendance (wanting to attend to).
Her desires grow stronger and I know what she wishes. These longings are rooted deep within her womanhood and I provide for them as I can.
Her friends know me as "distant", yet not beyond reach. They smile from the doorway approaching her in their way.
Their airs fill the room with jasmine and patchouli.
They love her as she needs them to.
More than I could know.

Yet not more than I do.