I could spin a poem
of quiet obsession

that fills the silent
corners of my house

during mindless swipes
at gossamer and black

heel prints on paint -
of how you corner my mind

a slight fever fueling
the licorice lilt of words

yours or mine
masquerading as yours

a dark sweetness
a curl of smoke

from the joss stick
before the idol

yours are the wind-fingers
that lift the hems of my dresses

you the cool trickle of sweat
behind folded knees

covetous keeper of
my otherness