Where are you tonight? Do you know that I'm here, alone, in my bed, aching for you? I take out my lipstick-shaped pocket rocket. It's a poor substitution. But you won't give me what I crave, so I must satisfy myself. Do you even know how you lead me on? You call, but you don't come. You write, but you never show up. I'm left, still alone, still wanting you. The phone rang last night, and there I was in my bath, talking to you. Did you know? Did you hear the small splashes as my hips rotated against my hand, as my breathing increased and my pink tongue flicked out to lick my lips, wetting them in preparation for a kiss that wasn't forthcoming? Sometimes, I think you know. You're smart. You must know that I want you by now. I see you watch my breasts rise and fall with my quick breaths when you're near. But here I am, once again alone in my canopied bed, thinking of you, and running my hands up and down my writhing body in rhythm to the pounding music from the stereo. I'm on my stomach, imagining you behind me; then, I'm on my side, turning, craving a touch other than my own. A soft song comes on, and I slow my caresses, imagining you whispering in my ear, telling me how much you have wanted this