*******, myself
I choose ******* myself
many small ******* to keep
that feeling of something engorged
always for myself

seminal pleasures gained
in each pocket used, spectral, every turn
touch memories and pieces of feelings
without destroying me, or
seemingly so

*******.
I think I still ache simply because
I'm always keeping someone, myself
in every other pocket, every outlet
fed with blue contrivance

precious kisses
hungry kisses aching for someone
to touch this last torn and weary pocket, trying
the warmth of my skin, something so easy
soothing the cool segments inside

someone asking for art
studying art, feeling art, then doing art
wanting, choosing, and finally clutching
this one last small myth
of who I am