I want you,
the way the honeybee wants nectar.
…
I write thirsty,
I hold the words in my mouth.
I hold them back.
I write you,
when love,
is obsolete.
I want you,
the way meadows
want rainfall,
to stretch,
naked,
waiting to rise,
to be summoned
by life,
or by the sun,
to be held
once more.
I write you,
thirsty,
titillating the words,
bare, unerring,
I whisper into your neck:
“I want you.”
