mythology of longing

 

my longing
has many layers
i am struggling to separate.
i cannot determine its origins,
this throb
that feels like an echo
in a hollow place,
space that was once filled
and now seeks
its filler.

is it longing
for that which i’ve had,
for someone i've had,
and i want a piece of them to return?

the spice of his sweat
beneath his spray of cologne
that made my knees weak.
his hardness
within my squeeze
of his iron will.
the smile i tasted on his lips
when i kissed him
how only i can kiss him.
the violence of my desire
to make him mine,
to make his body mine,
his every thought merged
with mine.

or is it longing
for that which i’ve never had,
what someone never gave me,
as compulsory
as for the newborn babe
who wails for the nipple
she has never seen
or felt
or tasted before,
yet her atoms desire it?

a giving to someone
who does not intend to give it back,
to give me back.
the taking of someone
who offers what i can take with me
when we are apart.
the first swells
of love,
crushing
and consuming,
that i blush at the sight of,
the sense of,
in others
but can only describe
in the same way
sailors sang of sirens,
imaginings
made lyrically real,
but still never anything more than
imaginings.

am i longing for what once existed
and thus must be able to exist
(i hope) again?
do i not trust the ability
of my ancient desires,
moth-eaten memories
wired into my senses
like a drug to my system
from the high of bygone
fulfillment,
to be duplicated?
am i longing for
the intangible,
untouchable
fantasy?
is it possible to find,
touch,
kiss,
lick,
suck,
fuck
the fantasy?

or will i forever sing
my siren song
to an ocean full of
my mythology
of longing,
sailing towards delusions
on a horizon that never nears
instead of simply reaching out
to touch the warm,
waiting,
never waning
object of my desire,
calling to me from the shore?

 
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hungry