Vouloir

There's this breath waiting in his throat. I want to steal it. To put my lips over his and suck out the sweet air and get dizzy. All mine is gone, anyway. I want his bruises.

So strange. Small, gnawing animals populating my chest, settling in, building nests. Every second of his silence feeds them. Every time I see him, all my reasons dissolve.

I want his boiling insides; I want to swallow it all, and it will burn good, it will burn like anger.

This is the skeleton; you have picked away the meat.

I want his expressions, every shift, every furrow, or maybe I want what's pulsing behind them. Because whatever it is, it is screaming, it is pushing at his cheeks, and I can nearly hear, I am nearly there. Or maybe I'm wrong. Maybe it's only a heartbeat. Maybe he's only alive, like me.

Him under my fingernails and eyelashes all over the pillow. I want I want I want like a child. And I could almost hate him, if I tried.