i'm an open book with torn out pages,
misprints, flaws stained in ink,
looking for a patient editor.

but it's hard to hold you,
when the night is still young,
and i'm shaking, twisting, turning.

this heart of mine, forever inclined,
to find the one that sates this hunger,
the burning desire of wonder.

novel feelings of unending love,
lust that singes and burns the pages,
from lips, tongues, fingers, that sing a sweet praise.

yet all i find is one more tedious lie,
a heart half gone and yearning for another,
or simply a waste of time.

if only i could find you,
and take your hand,
surely our souls would bleed into the sand.

instead,
here i am,
waiting for rain.