It is not him. No, it's just the possibility. The missed opportunity. The empty nights. The long years without anything. Without touches. I long for it so much that the moment someone catches me by surprise, even a slight hint of the thought, I am swept up in the fantasy. I like it more because it is absolutely impossible. We stumble into a room we aren't supposed to be in—that is the fantasy. I am constantly on edge. I am exhausted. I want this longing to end but the end terrifies me. Time is slipping away. Life is slipping away.
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Poetrysuppose Truth was a woman... * * * A collection of poems & thoughts about life and death and everything in between. * * * Disclaimer: Everything you read here was collected directly from my notes and journals, so please excuse any excess passion or...
