Some nights

Some nights
The bed is too empty
To get into alone.

I'd rather lie on the grass
under the full moon
and howl
at her magnificence
than creep
yet again
under
the beckoning covers
and try to find warmth
on my own.

Some nights
The want is too consuming
To lie
To yourself about.

I cannot run from it tonight.
It offers me no hiding place.
I am simply being consumed
in one painful bite.

Some nights
The desire is too daunting
To ignore
In the darkness.

So here I sit,
Huginn & Muninn
perched on my shoulders;
lost in waking dreams
of a lover's caress
at moonrise
and the
rich dark ache that
a well-turned phrase
can leave on one's soul.

I'm teased by thoughts
of breathless whispers,
and the sharp tug
of fingers
tangled in my hair.

I'm fueled by images
of twining limbs,
taut muscles,
and the
scent of skin and satisfaction.

And I'm lonely.
Lonely for
simple touch and
the easy affection
that comes with
knowledge of person and place.

What demon feeds these
thoughts
that taunt me
as midnight
creeps towards me
in this still dark house?

And how,
pray tell,
do I silence it?

© Tanya Anguita