Permit it to be an abyss.
Permit it to be the forfeiture of an affection so treasured.
Permit it to be the love plucked from their nascent bloom.
Permit it to be an addiction their spirits are fated to thirst.
Permit it to be melancholy that anchors them into their own depths.
Permit it to be the unquenched desire their bodies have been starved of.
Permit it to be a chasm in one's spirit that requires patchwork before they gather the strength to solidify it.
Permit it to be, me.
I am the affection they borrow when necessity arises.
I am the mender of their inner juvenescence.
I am the addiction devoid of the aftermath.
I am the shears that plunge to set them loose.
I am the caress that their bodies swallow.
I am the patchwork they deem apt to mask their chasm until they muster the energy to solidify it.
I am, me.
I am welcomed into lives when I am needed.
My spirit is singularly radiant.
At initial glimpse, my luminescence is tender and inviting.
My murmurs, soft and calming.
My body, beautiful and pure.
Every drop of my love and affection ceaselessly seeping into their abyss, yet never satiating.
Eventually, the light from my spirit morphs into the blaze of the sun.
They draw near, they commence to scorch.
My once soothing murmurs transform into wails and shrieks.
My body, battered and fragmented, marred.
Every drop of my love and affection spilling onto the soil at their feet. There is no longer an abyss I need to satiate.
YOU ARE READING
Moans in the Wind
PoetryWhen we are hurt, we moan in pain. When we are happy, we moan in soft sighs. When we are in love, we moan in affection and pleasure. All of your moans are meant to be heard.
