For after the rain when with never a stain
The pavilion of Heaven is bare,
And the winds and sunbeams with their convex gleams
Build up the blue dome of air,
I silently laugh at my own cenotaph,
And out of the caverns of rain,
Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb,
I arise and unbuild it again.
-Percy Bysshe Shelley,
The Cloud, 1820
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
Longing
Sometimes I long for your touch so badly that I can actually feel it in my body. I feel my body craving physical contact with you, feel my nerves starving to feel you close. My body yearns for you, desires your presence on such a deep level that at times I don't know how to bear it. It is not a sexual feeling, although I definitely feel that sort of desire for you. Rather, it is a longing for the comfort and total rightness of being next to you, in your arms and within your presence.
Sometimes I can barely sit still, because I have an almost uncontrollable urge to simply get up and go to you, to walk into your arms and let you hold me for always.
Sometimes I can feel my body reaching out to you, feel myself lean into nothingness with the desire to be near you. I sometimes lie awake in my bed, sending out mental curses to fate for separating us, for depriving me of the one being I most desire to be with.
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