There is a particular longing, ever-present, and unnamed
permeating into areas ordinarily inaccessible if circumscribed by specifics.
How, then, can it be a particular longing?
But it is something -- something unclaimed, wandering loose, or sitting forlornly, like lost luggage.
A sensitivity stripped bare? A need for astonishing uninhibited connection?
The thought of living shrouded is a continuous, dim discord.
Wings may be called for.
There are eyes, legs, hands, lips, breasts, a heart
too long constricted.
That longing itself made small, unimportant, by necessity.
Can I stop cheating myself, my soul, and celebrate the ecstasy of living?
Can this random yearning show me the way?
