Want. No rest until. The coarsely chopped cruelty of that aching. The strung-out longing, desiring, craving with a fury, to taste, just one lick. Just one! The pure bliss, tender-crumbed angel food, devil's food cake of an intangible thing that is human connection. Because once it goes missing, you will do anything. Fingertip to tonguetip. Kiss. Stroke away the urgent, rough, ancient, heartless want.
The need that is always there but is suddenly there and THERE and oh fuck, right there, that smacks right into you when you're just lounging about in your old yoga pants, minding your own business, acting mostly completely rational, paying bills, reading books, folding towels, when it hits you with some kind of sucker punch that leaves you wet and hot and burning and completely noodled. Wanting. The ridiculously urgent urge to touch. Sometimes it hurts in a twisted up nonsensical kind of way. Wanted. To be. To be Wanted. Not in a stark raving mad bank robber kind of way. Or an oh, that's so sad past tense sort of way. But in a heart-stopping "yes, you" kind of way. Wanted. Impossible, simply impossible at times and implausible too. So out you go, into the night, searching, focusing on the infrared glow of falling leaves in sodium lights, the beaming of beams, the barking of dogs, the falling of stars. Catch one. Curl up with it. Dream. And want some more.
Alvord Desert Oregon -- Wanted woman's hair doused with ancient lakebed mud and left to its own devices.
The desert beetle that wanted -- and got -- all the wine.