Wanting to reach out to brush the dust off your shirt,
or run my fingers through your hair,
or even kiss the bare skin of your neck.
Wanting to penetrate those eyes of yours,
or disintegrate before those eyes of yours,
or even melt and blend with those steel blue eyes of yours—
but I know I will not.
Wanting to hurl my heart to halt your pace,
or speak in tongues to waylay you,
or even trip you up to take your breath away.
Wanting you to share this chain around my throat,
or the weight of the lead around my bones,
or even the affliction; the malady inside my flesh.
Wanting you to wreak havoc inside of me
or savage the core that huddles inside of me,
or even cut open these ridiculous veins inside of me—
but I know you will not.
For I am not her; you do not want me in your arms,
or my fingers through your hair,
or even my kiss on your bare, naked skin.
You do not want to watch me disintegrate,
or share the weight, the sickness, the gore,
or even melt and blend and merge with me—
and I know you will not.
Wanting to reach out to brush the dust off your shirt,
it is all I really want to do—
but I know I will not.