Friction, or
a fictionally satisfying melodrama,

this is the section of
our love story when I burn

with too much anticipation, waiting
to feel your hands on

my face.

When I breathe fascinating frolicking breaths
down your throat

and fawn
like a little girl

In a parking lot I pull
the cigarette from your lips

cocoon it between index, and middle fingers
take a silky drag,

give it back to you.

take it all, too much of you.

I become a wired whisper,
esoteric in my presentation

to the world.

I go hours without eating, don't sleep,
trap myself inside fixation

feel the friction
of fundamentalism.

Fell you inside my veins,
pull you tighter

against the corners of my bones.

The nearness makes me jumpy,
prickly, and unpardonable

anticipating, and unpredictable.

This is the freedom
of my love for you -

freedom being the only cage
I find comfort in.