I'll let it permeate my parched skin.
Tear shapes hitting my scalp,
running down my forehead and my cheeks.
Sliding down my neck, past my collar bone; down my shirt.
Down
          down
                                                down.
Finally, down feels right instead of wrong.
"What's up?"
"Wishing for Something Good."
Can I taste the wetness?
Dropafterdrop [count: thirtyone] I'll let hit my tongue.
Sizzling and hissing upon contact with my desertdry body until I am drenched [and cooled off]..
Dayafterday [count: thirtyone] I've waited for Something Good.
THIS is Something Good.

There are bees in my brain again.
All that's in my eardrums is the
picking,
gnawing,
chewing;
the incessant buzzing of their wings beating against my prefrontal cortex.
I can hear them working away, relentlessly, day&night;,
trying to make a home for themselves.
A hive in my head.
They have taken up residence.
They are quite comfortable.

I imagine their tiny bee legs mixing a golden, syrupysweet substance.
Thoraxes and abdomens dancing a little bee dance on my brainstem,
happily humming,
poised to pour the poison.
The sauce saturates my cerebrum.
Thickerthanhoney...molasses.
It weighs me down--adheres me to the ground.
Now I am suspended in a tub of the suffocating stuff.

These are the nights that I wish I had more than just frozen frames,
more than just fickle photos,
                            a fistful of film
                               faltering features;
more than just snapshots in my gray matter

I don't miss your eyes
or even your lips.
I don't miss your frame:
your shoulders, your chin, your hips.
I don't miss the lust,
or the heat of the moment.

I miss the feeling behind it all.

I miss eyes that undress my thoughts.
      Stripping them of every layer until all
      that's left is venerable, naked, trembling truth.
I miss lips stitched to a mouth that has power.
       The power to speak not only to my ears, but to
       every inch of me.
       Shooting hot, prickly shivers down my spine
OR
       sending massive cashing-to-the-shore shakes
       on the Sea of My Own Tears.
I miss a frame that screams "I want you".
        Shoulders that lead,
        a chin that rests,
        hip bones that press.

I miss you more than I thought I would… think I should.

Too much.
Not enough.
Consistently criticized
for an over abundance, or, lack there of…
individuality.

"Pretty baby," they gush.
And you learn to lend out your trust,
but as the years pass, their words become yet another…
fallacy.

So you makeup your make up
because the lies that you're buying have got you tripped up.
You are caught up
trying to trash your…
individuality.

"Just follow these 10 steps! Easiest, by far!"
No.
What it actually reads is "How others perceive you more important than who you really are."
No.
By buying that, you are letting them rob you of your…
individuality.

Too much.
Not enough.
Consistently criticized
for an over abundance, or, lack there of…
individuality.

And just when I think that this struggle is too hard,
When I think that my Lover could not possibly want me back;
Just when you've spoken enough of your old familiar lies,
And JUST when you thought you'd won me over…
T H E R E.  H E.  I S.  …my True Love.
"Finally!" I say.  I am out of breath due to you smothering and stifling sentences.  "Some Air!  I can breathe," and I breathe You in deep.