Succubus

Not sloth but thought of you keeps me abed.
I summon you up, nuzzling the sheets
as if mere want might lie in your stead,
my hands manage to rival our feats.
I no longer hold you in my sleep.
Even when you feature in a dream
I pinch myself awake. No slumber’s deep
enough to mask you’re not the mate you seem.
Why should I rise and dress if not in quest
of you, who’ve led me to this cul-de-sac?
More than absence leaves me this depressed.
Finding you would never bring you back.
If pain be proof of love, then love it must
have been. If not, what pain there is in lust.