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No, He said.

I want you
wanting.

I want to taste the miracle of your desperation,
need,
lick the sweet sweat of tense from the hairline well hid
on the back of your pleasuring neck.

I need your needing constant completion,
but not succeeding.

The airborne aroma of your desires are fiery, arousing,
stimulus sensating me by the unending beauty of dissatisfaction,
this virus desirous, infection, makes my perpetual wanting  
for an incomplete perfect woman,
forever seeking betterment,
perfectly complete.

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I don't know what I've done,
but it's come back.

I thought I've escaped,
but I'm still here.

Why?

I wish I could run,
run away from all these feelings,
but I can't.

I thought that I've hardened,
that I could take it on again,
but I can't.

I feel so
empty.

I feel so empty
that I want to cry,
but I can't.

I feel so hollow in side,
that if someone knocked on me,
you'd hear a drumming sound inside.

I'm not sure if I can go through this again,
the first time nearly broke my will to live,
I don't know what to do this time.

I just have to hope for the best.