Sometimes, it isn’t a question of want, but need, and what I need is you.
Hard, inside me, now.
I don’t want you to ask.
Seduction is a matter of grace and I’m beyond that now.
I’ve shattered into suspended animation, inconsolable, wretched, a frozen banshee’s howl.
I can’t make do with these others.
I find the dance of their shadows far too pale.
A mimicry of sunlight, when what I crave is a solar flare.
No, it has to be you.
To leave me soulless, boneless, floating and thoroughly fucked.
Mass to my inertia, I crave your weight most of all.
My bones simply a thing to be ground like particle etchings of starlight, recorded in the blackness, by a light years breath.
I ache for brutality despite the patience recalled in your kiss.
That gentle coaxing I denied, because it would make me less wrong.
I am a glitch in time, a razor slashed pre-raphaelite painting that screams on the inside.
The blank map of your predilections lure me continually to a reality that may not exist.
Winding paths as fleeting as the question of whether you want at all.
Let alone me.
Need unrelenting like stone, it can be covered, chiseled away.
My litany of minutia, I can look past any atrocity and smile.
Wind sways the branches, the twisted tree in the forest whispers it’s still irrelevance.
Frozen in the destruction of my own time, continually forgetting this dream of hope.