I'm crawling on the floor
skinning my knees in an effort to reach that ever sought
intimacy-


I want to drown in it,
I always have,
the strange desire
suffocating my fear glands and stifling the silence with a warm glow of love and beholding.


How far will I travel to feel the touch that I remember from the last life,
calling me to London, to Paris,
knowing that I will find you there,
cowering in the dark streets you will find me,
showering down on me like a sun ray,
beaming me out of my depression and back into solidity,
of self-knowing and respect,
as well as adoration for one another in the quiet night
under a foreign sky,
and a warm blanket.

I know that it sounds of a benevolent kind of love,
a trying kind of love,
but it is right;
it is the kind of love that oozes out of my pores in the morning,
making my skin smell of honey and daisies as I rise.
The kind of love that perforates the tears and the pain,
cutting deep into my core and filling me
as if with blood,
but a new (true) love instead.

Your *** matters not,
yet I want it.
I want to fill my hands with it,
inside/outside of each other,
back and forth across your cashmere soft skin and soul,
playing the same childhood games to remain sane
where we are for all rights, lost in the translation of love,
lacking oxygen, but not lacking each other.

Here we caress one another uncontrollably
in a quest for sensation
but as we are so far,
a lack of libation
in turn,
until we are once again
twins in flame and love, and space.