I am hungry for you.

For your
fingers climbing
my face,
my hair,
pulling me in.


I’m starving,
the ache blooming
in my bones,
digging pits
in my belly,
driving wooden slivers
under my nails.

The want
of your mouth
leaves a thirst,
dry and unquenchable,
unendable and deep.
My throat yearns
for a drop
of your tongue
to stop the pain,

the hunger from
eating me from
the inside,

yet I know I will never
be sated.
I will never feel you
winding your way inside me,
pumping me full of your darkness,
the heat you carry like a cross,
a pain so hard it lights up worlds.

You are gone,
yet ever present
in your gaping absence,
and I am still hungry.
Famished for
a taste of your lips
against my tongue.



Not Them

I’m not her,
the one you see
when you close your eyes.
My hands are
My eyes aren’t hers
and my lips don’t taste like
the ones you dream about
when you’re alone in the dark
crying for the want of her.

You are not him,
the one I feel
when you touch me.
Your hands are
Your mouth isn’t his
and your brown eyes
don’t look the way I need them to
when I’m searching for something,
anything to make me whole again.

We are not them,
the ones we
yearn for,
scream for.
We are different.
We are distant.
But we need just the same.

I am not her.
You are not him,

but we could be
to each other
when the dark is too much
and the stars aren’t quite bright enough
to light our way,
when the silence is too quiet
and our tears waterfall around us.

We could at least be someone.
Even if it’s just pretend.


Sad Eyes

I am wading
in the dark of you,
through your mires,
your swamps,
all the black
that makes you.

I keep knocking
on cave walls,
on cottage doors
hoping you’ll open one,
even just a crack,
a sliver of welcome,
of wanting,

because I want to know you.
I want to walk around
in your mind
and hear your heart beat
from the inside.

To hold your pieces
up to the light
and let the dark drop out.

You are so much more
than the shards you choose to see,
those tattered walls and windows,
those holes where people used to be.

You are sweet shadows
and smoky whispers,
the spaces in between the dark and light,
a beautiful sadness,

and I want to hold you,
touch you until you melt back together,
until you understand
how my world explodes
in undiscovered colors
every time you look at me
with your sad eyes.



I want to sit on the couch
watching shows I’ve never seen
and feel your thigh against mine.

And that’s so bad.
To want such a domestic,
relationship type of thing
because that means
I’m not in control anymore.

If I ever even was.

I can’t stop seeing your face,
feeling your mouth,
soft lips against naked flesh,
and I can’t stop trembling.

The want devours me
and I succumb
because I need you
against me,
inside me,
buried so deep

I can’t tell us apart.


Only You

I’m trying to forget
what it feels like
to kiss you,

how your lips feel
caressing my neck,

the way you look at me
right before.

But every time you touch me,
I have to start forgetting all over again.

I should make you stop,
push you away,
save myself,

but when you reach for me,

the ground drops away
and there is only you,

your dark eyes,

and the way my skin burns
each time we touch.



His kisses walk
down my throat,

fingers fumble
through my hair.

His face,
rough with stubble,
scratches my naked skin,

and I can’t breathe,
can’t think.

It’s him,
dark eyes,
bowtie mouth,
hands migrating across my body.

It’s him against
my tongue,
my hands,

and I need him

I might fall
but I know I am already
towards the bottom of his eyes
each time he looks at me.

And when he finally says my name,
the syllables becoming
raw instead of round,
I know,
right here,

I’m doomed.


Silence: A Conversation in My Head

“I can’t stop thinking about you.”


“I don’t know. I think it’s your eyes. And your silence.”

“My silence?”

“Yeah. Like what’s underneath it.”



“Make me.”

“When you say that, all I want to do is kiss you. Your neck, that corner of your jaw, your soft mouth when it turns hard and I can feel your desire. Feel your wanting.”


“Stop what?”

“Saying things like that.”

“I can’t help it. I want to know you almost as much as I want to feel you against me.”

“Oh yeah?”


“I am nothing.”

“You are everything.”


“Say my name.”

“I can’t.”

“Yes, you can.”

“If I say it, things change.”

“Haven’t they already?”

“I don’t know.”


“If I say it, what happens?”

“I don’t know.”

“You never know.”

“That’s my line.”

“I know.”


“Kiss me first.”



Do you ever talk to someone who doesn’t say much, not in words, but their eyes write novels? All the things they don’t say add up to everything?



He is broken.
I can see it in his eyes,
and I want to hold that pain,
soothe it with my lips,
fold it up inside my skin.

He is shattered.
I can see it in his eyes.
I want to taste his agony,
run my tongue against its insides,
bleed it til it runs like he does
when it hurts too much.

He is beautiful.
He can see it in my eyes,
and I wonder if he knows I mean it
when I hold myself under his water,
drink his tears,
drown in his slippery silence.

I want to kiss his jaw,
touch his mouth with my edges,
and whisper how much I understand.



Your desire
behind locked words
held tight
in tight places.
The mastery
of these ghost-like
only tempered
by windows
and miles
and timing

but it was gone
before the first word
hit the page,
before touches and kisses,
before sucking and fucking,

it was over
before it happened

because eyes turn
into screens
hiding our truths,
our glances,
our indelible selves,

the ones we can’t change or show
lest our worlds
come floating down
in ashes around us.

Desire only matters
when it doesn’t,
when it’s pieces
and wanting.
When it’s asked
and unanswered.

When it’s you and not me.

Desire only exists
behind glass,
plain and lucid
yet covered,
with longing and fear.
Our pain bleeding
into more pain
held up with craving,

to see her there,
legs open and waiting,
to almost feel
his lips on her skin.

But never to actually be there.
It’s all just longing
turned into zeroes and ones.


Trying to Forget

That feeling,
the one where your stomach
gets all warm and jumpy,
and flames wrap around your face
the moment his chilly fingers
touch your cheek.

That feeling
of new and possible
that races from your head
all the way out your fingertips,
and feels like you could
paint the night
with the sparks flying out
of your hands.

That’s what I need to forget.

The feel of his lips on my neck,
his hands on my skin.

I need to forget his dark eyes,
the brown so deep
it feels like I might fall forever.
How it feels when he catches me
on the edge and kisses me harder
to make sure I know where I am,
that I’m with him.

And we watch the sun rise
from purple to bright gold.

That’s what I should forget.

Wanting to watch
the sun come up
in his eyes.