Sitting Still

Shamelessly, secretly,

In covetous whispers,

My eyes move.

The sight of her tends towards

An unaccomplished want.

In the upstairs region of a thought,

I crave to satisfy a need long neglected,

But cowardice brims and swells beneath.

Was it always like this?

Was it?

Or is this simply age?

A result perhaps of a life

Crammed with laudable

Yet darkly-webbed inhibitions;

Themselves fruit from such self-doubtful seeds

That were planted at a time of guilty responsibility.

I never asked for this.

Never even saw it coming.

So what keeps me here?