Waiting

There is a waiting.

One that exasperates us or tears us apart. I exist in a mad desire to rip the hands off time and break open the windows of this insane longing for you.

Whoever said that longing doesn’t cause physical pain has surely never known the true absence of someone.

Waiting is like the heart... silent, entering little by little, on tiptoe, so as not to wake the emptiness that was left behind.

As the night embraces the moon, I waited for your embrace.

And yes, it is easier to pass the time waking up in other beds than to wait for someone.

But not me.

I refuse, and always will. I prefer the empty bed and my sacred temple intact to the worldly superficiality of temporary pleasure.

For many nights, I waited for you to undress me.

Always... with you, I am always insatiable.

Always wanting to kiss you, always wanting to touch you, always wanting to consume you, always wanting to love you.

How many nights I took off my clothes wishing you would tear them from me. For many dawns, alone, my body set the room on fire.

My pores, boiling and erupting, summoned the memory of your skin, which still remained for me like that overwhelming little box of memories.

I never thought I would be capable of breaking my bed on my own... but I did.

And I looked at it with a taste of pride and bitterness.

How many times I looked at you and sketched an angelic smile when in truth I was thinking about the timbre of your moan or the paralysing chemistry that would tattoo our bodies with sweat.

You left me like this, skin-deep, raw.

Longing for a sigh, a moan, a sip of you.

Between my chest, lips and legs, there is still a space, a gap.

I am an open book: feel free to glide through my verses, rest in the spaces between the lines

and lose yourself, devouring page by page the infinity of my being.