It’s so simple,
like the hue of oranges,
like citrus in the back of your throat.
I want to drag his skin through my
taste the salt trailing
from the corners of his eyes,
lick the genius from the
slightly-parted, mellifluous quality
between his lips.
I want to drain the green from his
and the silken-purity silver from the
smear it over my face till I
run red with the rawness in it –
until I am saturated with what I most
I crave his mind,
the stormglory-scent of his soul,
the incineration he injects with his
the fire-pulse just beneath the
I stand beneath the aridity of some
god-forsaken slice of sky,
and I scream for rain because I
and I gnaw my own bones as they
I consume myself with hunger –
and I rip my hair from the root,
matted with longing,
but release no internal pressure.
I become a black hole,
a vortex of clenched fists,
his name unfurling like the sun
against the curled-paper
walls of my lungs –
his taste beating
like the oxygen in my blood.