I don't necessarily lust, but I undoubtedly desire. It's a double-edged desire, envy and wanting of legs and hair and facial curves. My mind wanders, but not as it used to. Like I used to deal with hunger, I assume nothing will happen, and so I do not grow lustful. I am not frustrated or unsatiated. But I am lonely. I do lie in bed, at night, and wish I need not curl upon myself. I do miss kisses and hugs, miss the physical trust and affection, miss the excitement and reliability. I miss romance.
I am not depressed, but I am far from happy. I am not full of angst, but I am not peaceful. I am not unloved, but I am distant. I see the women come and go, talking of Michelangelo, and I, a poor man's Frida Kahlo, lie broken and unobserved in the next room. I am great, in my own way. But I am not desired or wanted. I'm lost. I feel too young to be getting old. Strange, since I don't particularly relish what I have. And yet I want more. Want more of what potential indicates, not what reality reports.
No, I do not lust. But my desire cuts both ways and leaves me slivers and shivers of should be's.
I am not depressed, but I am far from happy. I am not full of angst, but I am not peaceful. I am not unloved, but I am distant. I see the women come and go, talking of Michelangelo, and I, a poor man's Frida Kahlo, lie broken and unobserved in the next room. I am great, in my own way. But I am not desired or wanted. I'm lost. I feel too young to be getting old. Strange, since I don't particularly relish what I have. And yet I want more. Want more of what potential indicates, not what reality reports.
No, I do not lust. But my desire cuts both ways and leaves me slivers and shivers of should be's.
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