Starved
Longing as a hobby.
desire of my own,
like wood rotting beneath the baseboards
of all the lobby bars and smoke-filled taverns
that I could be carousing in.
a whisper in the grey matter
stuck like meat in between my molars,
tonguing the longing caught in the folds
where you live with me covertly.
learned by sight and feeling alone,
no shadow of you to build a shape from.
how the sky feels on a night without the moon,
I find myself floating there too.
desire of my own,
like a meal made of your very soul,
untamed and unnamed in it’s shamelessness
while you dance behind my eyelids.
About the Creator
Dakota Nate
Los Angeles-based poet forever stuck in the buffet line of creative expression. I like to focus my writing on complications of the heart and mind, how they interact, and the messiness of the human condition.
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