I want. . .
I whisper
to empty rooms
air so chilly
that words float
ghostly moths
frozen in the mist of my breath
unprepared for them to linger there
echo with meaning
give voice to hungers
I tell myself
I do not have
full of guilt
fascination
I trace the letters
with silver pink fingertips
caress the curves and lines
say it louder
bolder
I want. . .
I want. . .

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