I craved presence and dreamt of intimacy:
of arms wrapped tight around me in the darkness
and lips like wildfire scorching throughout my skin.
Of midnight drives and trips to crowd-less theaters,
chafed balaclavas and pseudo-****** sprees.
Of laughter and a smile not like the sunlight
but the moon's: enigmatic, forlorn, lonely.
Of self-destruction and notorious luxuries,
and hands, laced against my own,
comforting, solid,
a drop of water in the desert.
(A kind of love that could give me what I wanted,
and what I wanted was oblivion.)
