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There is a thirst named after you
burrowing like a dark seed
somewhere in my heart,
a little left of center,
next to the fear I’ve had
since I was a little child
that I might grow up
to be insignificant.
I’ve told you about that, haven’t I?
Once, when you and I
were getting to know each other
and I asked you what
your greatest fear was.
And you told me it was having
the woman you loved fall
in love with someone else.
I took my cue from that,
even if you didn’t love me yet,
because I wanted to make you
realize you had nothing
to fear from me.
I don’t look at anyone else.
But I see you.
I see the sexy smiles
you’ve been giving those women;
I strain to hear the words you say.
It excites me that your heart
is awake. But oh, yes,
the thirst. The throat that
leads to my heart is parched.
Dry. Like the desert
where getting lost always comes
with having nobody aware
that you’re there.
And the cries for help you cry
get more articulate over time
but only the rare wind that blows,
truly hears.
The schist and sands absorb the dream
as if to tell you they have gone
longer without water,
and you can’t tell them anything.
That kind of thirst.
That incompleteness that stretches
in all directions.
One of them leads to Hamunaputra.
Everything else leads to you
but my directionless love
has broken my mind’s compass
and I can do nothing but leave
random patterns of footprints
hoping they would help you find me.

“4705” by photographer Robert Bagnino Lubanski