Want

I want to have him.

         I want to have his touch.

         I want to have everything and anything that is and was him.

         
         There is a difference between want and have; I know this.

         Maybe if want meant have and have meant want, I would be satisfied.

         But it does not and I am not, so I continue to want.

         
         The golden angel with satin hair and the gentle touch visits me; she baths me a shower of milk and honey, clothes me in fine garments and kisses my pain and tears away.
         
I hate her. 

His hand is my desire and comfort, not her gentle touch that are but whispers on my skin. When the flesh is torn and broken that is the reminder of his love, when she repairs that is a silent reminder of her hate.

The bright white light breaks the still darkness, straining my eyes going blind until she disappears.


His hand feeds me and caresses me, always hidden in the dark.

I never touch him back.

         I think about the angel and her hate and the man with his touch; they are the same in everyway I realize.

         When the steel closes, I move and pound against it; I want to have him and not share with them.

         Mine and mine only, I think.

         I scream and only I hear; my throat becomes hoarse.

         
         Hand slips against the steel and bright light surrounds.

         And then there is a glimmer of hope.