Call me, and tell me you still
catch the sensation of my limbs
tangled around your neck,
and my hair tangled in your fingers,
without having to dream about it;
that you meant to return the favor,
and lull my madness to sleep,
and something said, "why not tonight?"

I don't know much
about anything,
except for what's right now—
and now is beautiful,
and it hurts,
it tantalizes, and
it soothes, and
it's disturbing;
and I'm living in it,
and I try to come
away from it.
but I always come
back to it—
because now
is all I have—
and it would be greed
to ask for more, and
any man would be daft
to settle for less.