Wanderer

My body yearns for structure, the kind that’s shaped around empathy and intimate investigations. I long to be questioned completely, seen and heard as though these notions I must feel and in turn say might matter in the scheme of things. Not just little ponderings like how my day went or the size and shade of what my mood is like. Not just questions only ever complicit in their surface level seeking. My heart heaves heavily with each breath drawn in and sigh released when reciprocating energy is deemed to be distracting. I want things to be as perfect as is possible. I want things to feel as though they’d matter in one hundred years. I want love that spits out blood when teeth meet tongue, when tongue has taken leave from cheek. I want love that shifts like plates below our feet and brings about eruptions full of soot and embers I might watch fall flat. I want to kick and scream and feel the air begin to sting my lungs as fire formed from passion churns below the surface. My hands were made for tearing things apart and placing this piece against that piece, for taking what might work and forcing them together, in lieu of nothing new under the sun. My soul is simple yet so much so that I am often mistaken for some type of wanderer, some senseless creature. I can sense the scent of silk and sweat and swear to stay until the seconds soak my skin. They feel like uncertainty and pools too deep for me to reach the bottom. It’s sink or swim with me. It’s black or it is white.