Fiction,  flash fiction

I Have A Hunger Without Shape or Home

I have a hunger without shape or home.  It beats through my body and fills me, pushing its way out with every breath, searching for you.

It’s the way I stand taller next to you. It’s the way I can’t stop from smiling.  It’s the way I like to linger with my eyes on your eyes, on your shoulders, on your chest and on your hands.  It’s the way I’ve lost all formality, swearing my frustrations and confessing my fears as if there were no distance between my needs and your response.  My most primal needs are plain to you as if it were normal, as if I were naked like this with everyone.

It’s the way I’ve lost all politeness, teasing you the way you tease yourself, for flaws that gnaw at you but if you had to know the truth they don’t gnaw at me.  The way you talk so fast your words blend into rapid-fire consonants. I have to pay attention. I watch your lips and your eyes and now I know what you’re saying as fast as you say it. I’m on the tip of your tongue.  I hope you never lose those flaws.  I don’t want anything to change, even though I know it will, even though it is already changing.

It’s the way our humor is intimate and knowing. I’m inside your inside jokes, your twisted mind. I’ve listened to your boisterous vulgarities and indecencies until I am shaking and roaring with laughter. I’ve listened to your quietness as you told me about disappointments  your failures, your lost loves, your mistakes. You told me everything.

It’s the way I’ve lost all shame and innocence. I think of devouring you at every opportunity. It’s the way I tackle you for a hug. It’s the way I throw my hand down your pants on the couch, just to feel you grow. It’s the way I rip off your belt and your pants like a starving beggar tearing at a wrapper.  If our nerves could join I’d scratch your ass when you felt an itch. Your itch is mine.

I have a hunger without shape or home. The walls that protect my heart have collapsed and at night, alone I scramble to find the broken pieces and stack them up again.  I can’t find the walls that used to hold my desire in, that kept it contained.  I can’t find the house for it, the box, the coffin, the body. I can’t find its shape or limits.  But when I close my eyes I know the traitor.  It was me.  I betrayed my hardened heart, my own protection and fear that made me safe.  I betrayed it with my hope that I could have you.

I allowed it. I craved it. I asked for it. Now my hunger without shape roams free, searching for you or a pale replacement for you, searching for a home.

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