I believe you are the fire that could burn an eclipse,
that could bring me to knee-shaking, mouth-watering highs
with only crumbs as bait. How my tongue
anticipates the velvet
texture of your edges: the mellow meshes repulsive, while
the tempered yellow inviting,
it is akin to
a stalker grazing a gazelle just right
that it could run but not so fast
that it would be out of sight — and the hunter
is actually at the gazelle’s mercy;
a prey merely in play.
I believe that butter is as sweet as sweat on skin;
that oh-so-rough skin that housed needles, that I
but tasted once and stupidly let go.
I believe the brightly-lit field melts as quick
as lightning-emotions that start a heart
racing, galloping through that satisfaction, knowing
that all fullness leads to emptiness.
I believe that you are the manifestation of my hunger,
and that in consuming you, in feeding on you, I confess my need.
I am but a waiting fiend, with terrified eyes and lips,
an old soul privy to what these feelings have in store:
too aware to crave,
too weak to resist,
too untrusting to seek help,
too shy to boast,
too discouraged to begin,
too lazy to move,
too proud to admit
that I have ruined toast.
— A. P.