Impossibilities

I think of you in ways I cannot say with words.

Perhaps because I feel lonely, even though I am never alone.

You are wrong, but wrong that feels good is better than nothing, everything.

Always some need hiding around a corner.

But never a need that calls for me to give some deeper more meaningful part of myself.

Only the basal needs of the flesh, the mouths gaping open, always hungry, needing, wanting, taking until there is nothing left of me.

Crumbs of my identity dissappearing between the cracks of the responsibilities I have shouldered upon myself.

I want to burn in the hot sun and hear your scornful, beautiful, rediculous words rolling past on the breeze.

I want your hands to squeeze, and push, and heal my flesh of its sadness while your teeth carve your name into my skin.

I want the salt imbedded in my pores in a place so far removed I cannot be found.