Our conversations are like kisses to me.
Your mouth opens and closes in tandem with mine as we share emotions and intimacies, translating incomprehensible feelings from the hearts of our hearts.
I feel you more in your absence than I do when you’re here. The part of me that longs for you swells like irritated flesh to compensate for the sensation that it can only achieve by making contact with your skin.
I itch for you.
You soothe me
Your scent is my inhalant.
A subtle whiff of the gust that carries your aroma in my direction energizes my nerves like no opium-cocaine-methamphetamine combination ever could
Because the part of me that’s been touched by you is my favorite part of me.
I still have days where I believe you’re all that matters.
Periods of starved yearning span for weeks and months as I fail to sate a starving heart with feasts of fresh knowledge and left over memories .
It’s absurd that such a substance even exists,
A substance that can produce an addict without ever having shed a
Withdrawals quake the very fibers my existence as if the love child of the eruptions of Krakatoa and Pompeii hit the dance floor after one too many coronas
Then the cycle begins:
My eyes gloss over and begin to pool, I halt the departure of tears as they attempt to rinse away the fantasy of what you were to me.
I drift into an ashen gray cloud that ebbs and flows into the gaping void,
the void once filled with cans of ecstasy and bowls of tantric euphoria that danced along the border of orgasm , the void that remained after you left me.
Father Time plays lead guitar with the sandman on bass and Mother Nature on the mic, singing me into the realm of sleep, as I continue to yearn for another dose of the drug I’ve never had,
the drug that quit me.