i shake with anticipation
i tremble with the best of intentions
i sweat with the delicious infection.
and i am begging her again and again:
make it happen, make it last;
but pleasure is not the same as freedom
when you're stricken...afflicted with the past.
it's easy to forget i'm too addicted to leave her
when my mind is lost in the fever...
it's in my blood these germs, this illness
it's in the cold and quiet of a winter stillness.
this arranged marriage, this merging of strains
is raging into a virus that is more than us.
now the buzzing and burning in my brain
turns from a riot into a chorus.
1.6.11
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