I am a glutton for unrequited
desires, because fantasy is simple.
My lips quiver, wordless. Why?
Why am I only able to cradle
your hands in my dreams? Oh.
I suppose it is poetic justice.

We creatures who lurk in darkness
cannot touch the stars.
If I could touch you, would you
sparkle or would you burn?
Can I outline the contours of you
the way petals unfold in the sun?

I am unpolished, eroded by waves
of discontent as I lie at your feet.
And yet, I am satisfied with my
own dissatisfaction. Aren't you?
Did we ever know what it meant
to be satisfied? It isn't in our blood.

We were never meant to be content.