Lustful individual,
starving in a world of touch,
hands full of want,
yet given nothing to hold.
What an irony
to burn this bright
and still sit in the cold.
Desire floods my veins
like a river with no shore,
crashing against a body
that no one explores.
It’s more than skin,
more than heat in the night
it’s the silence after craving,
the absence of being desired.
I laugh it off sometimes,
dress it up as a joke,
but loneliness has a way
of tightening its cloak.
And in those quiet hours
when the world falls asleep,
my thoughts grow louder,
my emptiness, deep.
Not just lust
but the need to be chosen,
to be felt, to be known,
to not be this open
and still be alone.
What an irony, really
a heart this alive
feeling like it’s fading
just trying to survive.
But maybe this fire
isn’t meant to destroy,
maybe it’s proof
there’s still life in the void.
So I sit with the ache,
I breathe through the night
a lustful individual,
still learning
how to turn hunger into light.