Pen to paper: the sole way I know how,
articulation seems meagre,
when from my lips, attempted.
I mean not to offendthine eyes or ear.
Simply delivered here,my purpose-
this seemingly tedious, onerous task,
(though writing orconsuming-which isonerous more?)
of exposing words, scribed upon my beating heart.
A formed confession, which I struggle to impart.
"Yearning," "desire" -I tire of such diction.
Yet, may it be offeredthat I am "lacking."
How naked when presented, as such as this:
"I miss you,"but "you" is a fluid term-
pouring "he" of yesterday, or years ago
into framesof a gallery of "what if's."
I fight to conjure a foresought memory of you in future nights
(not suffocating days).
My mind recalls not, what my limbs achingly do:
the sensation of strength wrapped in, around
pressed against this encasement-of physiological lust,
and mental infatuation,
Embrace, kiss, caress-mechanical Steps!
They spark nerves'responses,but do not put
dreams to a test.
Absolve me of the Seven-
for I'm Master of them All.
Or, douse this Burning Paradox of an empty soul
full of Pain.
(and explain how you accomplishedsuch a trick.)
Or, just confirm the Icy Truth, that I,
who Burns truefor You,
is just a passing flame,
with the Breath of
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