As I serve this barbarian breakfast, I spill out like drunken dessert across my duvet, a prim and proper prison worthy of infinite exile. I've long forgotten the flurries of activity my heart once beckoned me with. All thoughts of love have been replaced and erased by time, in time, little by little. I'm simultaneously always exhausted and never tired. The missing of you plays a savage beat on my chest, reminding me of music you wouldn't have liked at a show you wouldn't have wanted to go to. I want to know you, but never be known by you. If you knew my secrets, my treasure chest of brilliant lies and omissions, the ghost of whatever love you felt for me would evaporate.
I want to feel you so much, too much, until your skin starts cracking beneath my fingertips,
fracturing, fissures fizzling up like spiderwebs.
I want to get caught in a feast of frantic fantasy, a cannibalistic brutal buffet, trapping us mid flight, I want to ravage the sky. I want your body to be mine, all mine, the way it was so many months and days and hours and seconds ago. When I could have crushed you in my hands, the days when we breathed the same breaths. I miss existing within you.