Your face, my chest. Your eyes closed, inhaling like I’m the final thing you’ll ever smell. Pretending you’re asleep, knowing you’re savoring this moment. Is it pathetic that I still imagine your face?
Why do I yearn so intensely for love? I feel as if this is the sole desire I have, every other desire I’ve ever experienced has been secondary, or a means to the end of that higher and truer desire, the desire to love. I want to see the love swelling in someone’s eyes, I want your face to light up when I walk in the room; instead, I feel cast into shadow. Can someone’s hand reach in here, pull me out?
THE CLOSET MYSTIC 