I wonder what would happen if I put my hand on your chest,
on the spot where I know all the electricity in the world comes to rest.
The stretch of muscle and skin just above the cold cage of ribs
that hold back the rapid fire of the Tommy gun that is your heart.
Having seen all there is, and all that will be, I imagine Time would stand,
fold his newspaper, and take a cigarette break.
Knowing that what happens next is outside his jurisdiction.
He was never one for the oddsmakers anyway, and as this was
Fate's game at last, he could finally lay a bet on me.
My old friend, not caring if he loses; a sucker for those who wait.
Then all this sleeping love that's gathered
in the darkened corners of the wild lands in my soul
would push itself up to see you. If I could just get my hand there.
If I could just stretch out my fingers, across your skin,
Time would have his cigarette, and I would have my one chance to tell you that,
I have loved you like the the silence loves the sound that keeps it quiet.
I have loved you like the hollow loves the hills that make it poor,
that I want you without needing or expecting you will have me,
like the body when it's broken, no longer prays that there's a cure.
I am hungry, always hungry,
but not wanting anymore.