It is too much
and never enough
I seek you in Bukowski rants
I let his refrain boil over me
and scald me
the same way I let your apathy light me
on summer nights
my skin, already crisp from the afternoon sun

and how many pathetic lyrics
of
must I French kiss
until I no longer see your curled cigarette lips?
and worst of all
my dreams
You are standing right there
a cigarette bit between your curled lips
I can almost hold your face in my hand
Only to awake to
my arms squeezed tight around core
When I dream of you
Why do I always wake up cradling myself
gripping the you in me