Just watching for a song

There is a crying,
slowly dying,
enigmatic,
scary ache in my bones,
to never love,
to never find,
what I hold
to be true
and dear
and kind.

The thing to fight for and die.
The itch and urge,
the pound,
hammer,
shroud and sound,
that rears its ugly head right in my gut,
in the pit of the innermost,
rises up through the soil
and my legs and my feet,
the energy beneath my soles,
that is going to come up and carry me.

That thing,
that unseen.

The storm,
that song,
that says:
“Lets fuck,
lets run,
up into the sun…”

Her strands,
each and every one
so wet,
shady,
clinging to that head,
crawling down her back
like a whip,
the sinner,
the saint,
scourging herself.

Two lips
so thick,
apart,
like I can fit my thumb right,
between.

The sigh,
escaping first her throat,
then her thigh,
the gurgly,
guttural cry for madness,
and ecstacy.

A single finger crawling,
scratching,
digging
up my arms.

Dull and blunt thumb,
pushing inside my flesh.
Make it crawl,
like a thousand ants,
like the sting of a bee.

Who is she.

Eyelids gape and glitter,
and her iris,
eternal, utterance, iriscident song behind a veil.
I wet a finger with sloppy madness,
and let it linger,
a spasm, short and sudden stroke,
on a tip,
tiny,
but endless,
simply beautiful.

And the tears, and the shudder,
and the madness, all out of control,
if truth was around,
it would sit right here,
voiceless breath, senseless shout,
life … loud .