Forsaken

There are no words soft enough to touch my point without breaking it.  There are no words sharp enough to touch my point without missing it.

They're all so vulgar, these words.  Lips, kiss. Breath, skin. Lust, love. Those are not what I wanted of you.  I want your intent, I want desire, I want what lies beneath all of these nouns: What the juvenile calls the spirit and what the learned man has no words for at all.

They're all so euphemistic, these words. Forever, eternity. Want, need. Longing, despair.  Those are not the words I wanted of me.  They do not encapsulate my intent, nor describe the my pain.  What I feel, as I have felt, is at the core of all of these concepts: What the juvenile lives to avoid and what the artist never feels satisfied in having captured.

Words, what have you for me now? What hearts do you pulse, what feet do you fleet?  When will you bring about the change?  I am doing my part - you have forsaken me.