Waste

The waste of imagining so much that never will concretely exist.

The beauty of women dancing burlesque 
and you exhibiting
the sensuality of hands that twirl in the air
and feathers
and hips swinging
and lipstick 
and slow motions
to sense and squeeze the tension
to savour the eyes on you

The surplus of love and the surplus of sexual attraction
that once he leaves
once he left
you don't know how to handle

where does it go the surplus of love
the amount of attraction
that he doesn't need?

I need to be touched

In a certain way

The violence of Torture Garden
the raw sexuality of your sensuality
the one you create and control
the eagerness of cracking yourself open
to see what is inside
the inexplicable need
to give sex a fresher chance every time
because you know every time is different

Through the delicacy of love-making
afterwards
the lenient cuddle of kissing
afterwards

The intimacy of watching the sunset elsewhere from here

The intimacy of watching the sunset elsewhere from here
after tearing each other apart sexually.
This is what I want.

So much waste and yet I am starving.

I should be done failing and breaking my bones
cause I should be done trying to jump.