She Wrote

When she wrote,
I awoke.

Inside something stirred.
A warmth.
A glow.
Excitement.
Anticipation.

And wonder.

Had she caused this,
By
Only,
Writing?

Was the flush on my face,
Because of her words,
Or what I chose to read into them?

Would her actions,
Meet what I imagined,
Reading her words?

Would my pen,
Within her,
Fire feelings,
As she had aroused,
Within me?

As I rise to approach her,
In these words,
Would she be open,
To receive my overture?

Is this proposal,
A thinly hidden proposition,
Of repeated mutual,
Stimulation?

Would it excite her,
To reciprocation of,
Verbal titillation?

Were her words a consent,
To an affinity of will?
Or a simple,
Exercise done in response to a challenge?

I knew we would never meet,
And, surprisingly,
That was OK,
Good, even.

But could a poetic exchange,
Light fires?

Climaxed only in dreams,
In imaginations?

Would she turn,
To me?
Or away?

In fear,
Or laughter?

Could I,
Would I,
Please her?
Anger her?
Excite her?

Would she respond?
To a missive,
Of playful,
Toying,
Teasing,
Tickling,
Banter?