What is desire?

I watch her from the huddle of cushions and sofa I've crushed myself up in, toes curling in the silky lining of a blanket heaped at one end, rubbing my nose on soft, lavender scented lace at the other.
She sits at the far end of the dark room which is violet grey in the late afternoon - a soft cool which merges with the shadows - by the one window whose shades are not drawn over. Bronzed sunlight pours in over her desk, illuminating the olive tones of her hands which work with quick, graceful strokes, bringing life to the paper beneath them.

I want her.
With a rumbling hunger in the pits of my eyes I devour the curve of her cheek, the gold flecks in her eyes, the way her hair feathers in at the nape of her neck. I draw it in ravenously, tasting the elegant, angular curves of her arms, the tilt of her chin as it angles from side to side, analysing the creation before her, yearning, longing,  wanting her....

Wanting her to want me.

I push my face in closer to the cushions, peering out over the fronds of lace, watching her. She draws swiftly, surely, her face mirror still as she concentrates on the art in front of her, dagger eyes, sharp fingers and suicidal grins spilling out from the pen she wields as a wand of life. What's between her legs gives her the birthright to create, but this is the only medium she's comfortable doing it in.

Art, art, art.

Does she hear my heart thud away inside my breast, warm and aching and swollen for love of her, in syncopation with the thudding between my thighs, where blood creeps out in a warm trickle, radiating energy that makes this need sharper, more like a coiled spring which feels the groaning need in every curve for release. One thigh rubs slowly against the other, and I sigh a little, gazing at her with a predatory hunger.

She works on, making love to the creation she's spawned, as always encompassed alone in that bright little corner. The sun from beyond falls sharply around the edges of her desk and does not dare spill further, illuminating her beneath its glare. She does not glance in my direction. The rustle of the sofa beneath me as I move does not divert her attention. There is no conspiratorial wink, no tender smile, no kiss blown to drift over the violet shadows and land safely on my thirsty lips. Her sex this evening, as with many before, is a flowering spiral of ink, which ripples like the wave of an orgasm over the page, exploding in a dazzling display of writhing bodies and twisted torment - or ecstasy.

I sigh again and flex my sex, feeling the blood drip slowly out, a warm and comforting feeling. I know this scene so well the images are engraved upon my eyes. The day is long and lonely, bare and dry. The fat ticking of the wall clock heats the anticipation to an enticing high which boils over when she walks into my arms for the delicious melting of a kiss, which grows longer and blazes down over our chins and through our breasts, burning its way between our thighs and simmering there, as we pull apart to slowly unwind after a day of work, smiling promises in our eyes.

The art paper rifles quietly in the breeze which drifts in languidly from the window, that love song which seduces her without effort, and tears her from the sofa by my side. The chair scrapes softly as it is drawn back, and she slips into it, resting long, slender fingers on the desk and gazing thoughtfully at the paper for two minutes, three, four, five, before taking up the pen and beginning. It is an old dance. It is endlessly beautiful to watch. I love to watch it. It tears my heart out.

Look at me, please. Just a sidewards glance from those lovely brown eyes, those eyes that can soften my heart for bruising with a blink. Let me see a thought of me in the hesitation of your hand as it glides over the page. Turn to me, smile, lay aside that pen and get up. Dive into me and mould me beneath those hands, those beautiful, talented hands. Kiss me with your fingertips, create me with the rocking of your hips, breathe life into me with your lips. Let me be your Art.

She continues to work as the clock clicks softly on the wall.

I know that she loves me. That much I never doubt. It is there, beneath the cool press of her hands, in the warmth of her eyes. The way her lips envelop mine and claim them softly. In that period of half dreaming wakefulness in the still of night when she turns to me and runs those life-giving hands through my hair, it is there.

But the hunger - the longing - the need. I long to see it reflected back at me in full, fiery passion. To see that art paper thrust back out the window, scattered to the pavement below, for her hands to wrench me into her arms, to devour me in kisses, to throw me down and consume me in an intensity of craving.

She continues to work, her lower lip protruding roundly in a concentrated pout.

I can smell the tangy scent of blood between my legs, and it spurs me to my feet, a thought germinating from its midst, and I slip from the sofa and drift to her side, my arms slinking around her neck and my lips warm against her jaw.
"I'm having a shower, love, alright?"
"Mmmm." Her pen snakes ever faster over the paper, illuminating it in creatures and beings.
Two fingers slide over the round of her breast, the way she loves.
"Join me, if you like. Saves water and all."
She laughs a little and presses her cheek against my kiss, but does not turn to watch the descent of my hips as I exit.

Scalding water drums a beat on my belly which trembles in mild cramps, and I softly hum and scrub myself in luxuriating anticipation. Lavender soap scents my pores and I slide slowly down the shower stall until I sit beneath the rushing heat and wait for her, my thighs drifting apart in a comfortable squat.

And I wait.

And wait.

I’ve wasted more water than I’ve saved, but my legs and head are heavy, bowed in defeat. I cannot bring myself to pull to my feet, clamber out and dry off, moving to the sofa beyond as though nothing happened.
Nothing did happen.
I doubt she’s looked up since I left, so she won’t bemoan the amount of water used and abused. Like a wounded child my lower lip trembles, quivers and the ache in my chest burns in the center before spreading like fire to grip me in its crush. The lure of lavender scented skin won’t turn her head, and she won’t notice I’m steamed a lobster red, almost as bright as the blood which drips softly onto the shower tiles. A moment later tears glide with a sad plop to mingle with that red, swirling and separating it into a pattern of pains.
 

Is this desire?