This itch is more than desire;
It is an envy of your very breath for being inhaled
Into the body of my such darkest thirst.
It is the despair of every hair that falls
From the perfection of the being that I most admire;
The hair that that these very words inspire, to grow and bloom.
It is the gaze I harbor only for you, your name and grace, absolute,
The gaze that wants for nothing when I chance to look upon your face.
It is the silent yearning that has filled me since that first word changed my consciousness
Into one who needs no material thing lest I bask in the shadow of your glorious infinite.
It is the hunger I feel for not only what you condescend to cast my way
But what lies inside you that you would never say; to me or otherwise.
It is the indescribable heat that permeates my soul, the heat that fills me to the whole
And yet empties me with everything I hope to achieve, leaving me void for you to find reprieve.
The man who to others is a man among men, but to me is the very thrust of my pen; I hope you hear my humble plea, though you owe naught but existence to me:
This itch is more than desire, it is the very match and you are the fire.
You are the abyss that is my calling, the abyss in which I am ever falling.
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