John, Keats?

I measure the passing of time not by the counting of seconds but my thoughts of thee.

One, two, three.

I want thee, I need thee, I love thee.

Thine eyes reflecting back the soul of mine.

Thine lips soft as a midnight sigh pressed upon mine.

Thine fingertips tickle and trace every curve and edge of mine.

I count the passage of time; eyes, lips, fingertips.

Four, five, six.

I want thee, I need thee, I love thee.

The softest brush of thine hand upon my breast.

The tight squeeze of the heart inside my chest.

Thine hold upon my body until I succumb to rest.

I count the passage of time...