passion

That first kiss feeling is exhilarating. The second, moreso. And on and on until you get to the fiftieth, the thousandth.. you feel the same lips, the same touch, the same look. A different look. Of despair, of complacency, of expected desire … what are you to do? Roam about, learn a new book, fantasize that spring-fresh feeling from years and autumns ago, when all was newly golden and churning butterflies into the wind? You feel the ripple of touch on your skin, the electric feel pricks up the hairs on your arms, the invisible ones along your back, your senses become alive like sparks of lightning, waiting for the storm to catch up. But time catches up. The ripples stay the same, the sparks dim, and lights lower. You surround yourself in a yellow glow, a bathe that consumes you, screams and threatens to keep you down, to quiet you into a lull of sleep and melancholy being.

In the dark, in the quiet, in the folds of blankets, ladies close their eyes. The sense of sight is nowhere near as far as the sense of touch. Every prickle, every glide of another human being, every line of every fingertip can be felt.

Closure. Impossible after remembering. Not that it ever comes. People are cowards and flakes. Who’s to trust? Not I, certainly. Not you, so quiet. I want you loud. Screaming out the top of your lungs, yelling, pulling, laughing maniacally, taking over and crying out, “For fuck’s sake!”

Always the same thoughts. My ears are burning red. I want your passion.