Private pursuit of pleasure

afraid of imperfection
she thinks about it nightly
and plots the moment in advance
knowing how doorways built of ice and fire
implode if entered less than lightly

she keeps a notebook in her head
recording looks in strangers eyes
tremor of a voice turning her way
shadow of a hardly there hip
half-imagined whiff of unbearable desire
complete burnt sugar music of lost chances

she goes comes she dances
later thinks
what a cold-fingered clumsy word is 'masturbation'