| Sick-Happy The sound . . . his voice when I feel it kiss me. The thought . . . visions of his hands everywhere. The pang . . . nausea and longing swirl in me. I can't hold back from wanting to be higher with him, wanting to roll in the sheets where he writes his love, his passion, his lust. While I lull in the feel of his naked skin near mine, I try to quell the pain within. He hurts my will, he bends my body, I bow for him. Owned, I can't be anything other than his to use. Going, I need him-- when he leaves, taking half of my stomach, half of my brain, half of my heart, none of my desire, I ooze onto the floor and I look under the door to see his shadow come by again. Temporarily . . . how he will come. Sometimes . . . when I really need him. Always . . . I overheat for him. A year, a month, a day. Still I sit beneath the sheets, hoping, waiting for him to return. |
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