I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.
Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day
I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.
I hunger for your sleek laugh,
your hands the color of a savage harvest,
hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails,
I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.
I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body,
the sovereign nose of your arrogant face,
I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,
and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight,
hunting for you, for your hot heart,
like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.
I’ve always loved this. For me, this describes the hot flush of first wanting someone…wanting to taste them, to eat them up; pacing like a big cat in heat. Love, or lust, has a very feline quality: liquid and longing and fierce and gently somnolent in turns. Lust is hungry, lust can’t get close enough without wanting to share the same skin.