I wanted
with such ferocity.
And for a long time,
the wanting seemed
a pleasure in itself.
Sticky droplets
budded on the surface
of my skin
before a single
touch.
But desire grows strange,
stale in this tight, airless place.
Tiny crystals of bitter need,
glitter-sharp, glassy shards
sparkle along the stems
of my unmet reach,
leeching poison into
everything around me.
No more
barbed remarks
or feigned indifferences.
I want what cannot be had.
The needle eased from the vein, raw and tender,
the green tendrils of yearning
retract, curling once again
into tight spirals.
Back to sleep.
Again.
Powerful, RG. Beautiful imagery.
~SG
Hi RG,
this is the best thing I’ve seen from you this year. Every phrase works. I particularly like the idea of your “unmet reach” becoming poisonous and leading you to escape into anesthetic withdrawal.
This is a sadness born perhaps of too acute a level of self-awareness.
I will come back to this piece often.
Thank you
*blush* Mike.
That is extremely high praise, coming from you.
If you have found a cure of a ‘too acute a level of self-awareness’ that doesn’t involve spending half my life blind drunk or in a drugged up stupor, please let me know.
This one resonates rather well right now, how weird. Oh yes, you can write poetry well dear. Very well x
Found myself wondering what the anaerobic “tight airless space” was a metaphor for. Alas, no cure for hypersensitivity. I first noticed it when I was twelve and my parents were maintaining a running battle about whether to divorce or not. It was only the first time when I felt cursed for feeling so keenly. Blessed be the clueless. Decades hence, I’ve found you can manage the symptoms, but the only cure is the permanent one.
Gorgeous. Provocative, powerful imagery. I envy you in always finding the absolutely perfect word. Ferocity. Glitter-sharp. Green tendrils curling into tight spirals. I get such vicarious pleasure from well-executed verse. Thx.