Hopeless Love Fiend

Unrequited love.

How can they put an I.V. in my arm when it's you who sustains me?

Your tender tongued kisses to my poised, goose pimpled body

Ignite my aching, arching passion

With those dense Magnolia mutterings, whispered in night.

I'm geeked on your attention.

Doped from the head you give.

Drunk off of the honey dew moisture from your lips.

I want a hit of you for old times sake.

Doves above sing out rooster like,

Waking me to the centralized hunger below my left breast.

Yet, I can only awake naked, clothed by my own skin, hanging off and crying tears of perspiration.

Knowing this nakedness knows no other.

The natural imprint of the mattress is mine alone.

Still.  Only to lay, twisting impatiently with a craving for you, YOU, and only blue you.

Outside, the mountains rise and fall in the shape of your breast.

The clouds are clear as my intentions, then storms roll in.

The pine trees branch out evergreener.

Ever expanding with limbs of it's own from rain's love and attention.

I, in turn, grow inward, pale, dissolving of my own will.

O blue you, whom I can't touch with softest tips of fingers

O, when will your calm, clear body,

Blanket my undisturbed nakedness,

Caress my feelings with your gentle words,

Save my existentliasm from rot, and

Cure me of this addiction like no other?

O, when will I ever taste your tongue above clouds of inopportunity?

Will they ever part for the light behind the darkness?

Whilst my thigh shudders to your gentle touch,

will I ever know your cozy embrace in front of fire log serenity?

Or will the nectar of your flower forever remain a wonder?

Is it possible for my written words to mean more than the paper they're written on to you?

To you, the mind wracks itself to describe this feeling.

To you, my fist dissolves to delicacy.

My body goes limp and my blood bubbles up agonizingly for conquest.

To you, my soul is opened at the Table of Contents,

A quick read of all you.  You are my Index.

To you, the breath that leaves this body and the quivering chest that brings it back in again.

To you, the only emtions that can be eternally true.

To you, my cut-out clipping of bliss.

To you, whom I never had but still do miss.

To you, O, I wish I could.