Frigid wants the flame,
soak the night in heat,
rescue the cold, then,
from what cold would be.

Chill wants the scorch,
soak the dead in sun,
rescue the frozen
from what cold will bring.

Half to death myself,
quiet breath, no knell,
asking, Where's the hand?
Where's the lip?
asking, Where's a form
who wants me?

No such thing. No such thing as
romance.
No such thing
as loving connection.

Only satisfaction.

so are you satisfied?