Oops, Not Yet, My Dear! (Fibonacci)

it is quarter to midnight we lay ourselves, on the bed, her breath demands, willing… to intertwine, while my naughty right foot tickles hers the touch of a lonely bourgeois, searching under the silk sheet of love, with a hope, not only mine, but her own silent gasping is at par as my own wanting grows and now, night-clubbers bowing their commitment, homage to lovers of midnight glory; a total silence as they pass thru dim-lit corridor, ‘cos we, they know are surely amongst the many too excited, in exploring what’s life has for us in serene night, but then the clock strikes midnight awakens the fragility of the moon---begging to be in-between, till morn comes