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.