It is during those periods
Of bitter, bitter silence,
That your memory is as
Foreign
As my own ambivalent thoughts-
Wallowing in self-pity and hatred

It is during those periods
Of wretched, wretched absence,
That I am a fire-
A fire of rage and denial
Where only the faint
Memory
Of your touch
Burns, burns until my flesh
Is searing in all the places your tongue
Once traced patterns of mystery-
Of sticky desire-
Of the urge I condone-
Upon imperfections I do not wish to
Hide from you, 
You

Mine