It’s why people cut themselves; some literally, most against those closest to them; anger, joy, desperation – these things slit deep enough to let life slip through like a breeze, too delicate to hold on to for very long.
Awake, awake!
I fear my personal knife is lust, but as vices go, there could be worse. I beggar myself for a hint of skin; the whole is often not as desirable as the small parts that are hidden, locked away – taboo. Forbidden things twist the senses just as well; breaking rules is often an aphrodiasic too subtly addictive to escape.
***
I led the silence with a gesture.
And followed with a kiss.
Holding too tightly lest
I bleed my hunger all over the page
This one hunger is an ache
Like a wordless play
Or a silent choir.
Reaching a slumbering sin somewhere deeper then my heart can touch.
My hand, your neck,
In a tighter embrace then air or blood or skin.
Captured in a fist, in a glance, in a shiver of skin and
I move you, consume the expression on your face with my fingers