Desperation is palatable in the dark.
Distractions abound by day, creating a separation of the function and the fervor contained within a heart. But this civil tongue is undone by the sight of bared flesh under the light of a maddening moon. It wants only to lash out, to speak of sin and forgetfulness, to etch the memory of hunger repressed, on every square inch.
Tangled somewhere between the inhale and the exhale, the grip and the gasp, the want and the need, limbs clasped and held tight, in a futile attempt to keep the reality of tomorrow at bay.