Fantasy Energy
I tested the water with
ripples
smaller than should have been,
dampened my skin for flavor
against
better reasoning and promise
and, now, I'm sorry,
I have
become thirsty,
a labored traveler in deserts
of sandpaper
scraper material,
a fantasy energy driving me higher
over dunes
which never fail
to slip and a sun so hot,
my skin is like
doll's in
overexposure photography.
But if I could be
a drawing on
your wall, a
longing in my face and languished eyes,
lugubrious
albeit, but I'd try
and mention should have been,
watch you
scrawl a name
beneath me, something sad and common.
A misnomer?
no. Just some recognition
of this:
a sketch or scribble, I'd
watch,
my face ever longer as shadows
fell darker and you
retired
to your room, drawings to come
already alive and
aware,
the pit of my stomach growling
hungry and loud
and
wishing to be there;
I am a paper, moist and unraveled.