Look at the body. Look at it, and tell me it doesn’t
dream as much as the stars. Tell me it will never be

sated, and that it will never calm down. This wanting
thing. Hiding feelings like dead bodies in all its unholy

closets. I thought you knew, darling. I thought I told you
about the daydreams, the one’s where we’re drunk off

of each other, chugging each other’s skins, and taste’s
and smells, the trees all pregnant with birds, the home

finally feeling like a home. There are so many things I
forgot to tell you, or it’s just that I couldn’t. I could see it

in your eyes. Don’t worry, I bled for you. God, I did I
bleed for you, even when the well seemed dry, which it

wasn’t. There was liquid everywhere. God, so much
wetness. It was a downright pour, all the floors slippery,

all the grass soaked with so much love for you. I’m not
just writing poems. I am a greedy thing, drunk on the

desire for love, and only love. My destination is not a
place. It has never been a place. It has always been

your arms, and your bed, and your body.

-Karese Burrows (via fluerishing)