The erotic fridge poetry gets its first work out...

Disclaimer: this isn't the poem, the poem is on my fridge, however the inspiration was the same...

I have become inexplicably fascinated with his magnetism. I am driven to distraction by the thought of tracing the line of that tattoo - the one there on his inner arm - with my fingertip as he tells me the story behind the ink. I wonder if there are more, as yet unseen, stories in ink to be traced and told.

I don't really know him - not beyond the pleasantries of our weekly haunt. I know his sharp sense of humour, his edge, his musical tastes and, typical of his trade, the feeling (illusion) of intimacy descends quickly with repeated visits. He has come to expect my casual touch when we pass each other closely. Bits and pieces of information coalesce into a still incomplete picture. Certain puzzle pieces are not likely revealed to these people, in this place. And so he remains part imagined, part illusion.

Until next week at least.