In my head

I let her get inside my head
when I held her close for a moment,
but she stepped back,
and I plummeted into the gap left between us,
falling into…
what?
lust?
love?
desire?
There is definitely desire
swirling around in my head with her essence.
Every breath seems to fill me deeper.

Unrequited love is such a turn on
and a rigorous regimen of cold showers
and confusing half conversations.
And then a lot of lonely nights
remembering her charming smile,
the empty echoes of memories
of lips touching,
of hands sweating into each other
as they are pressed together at that uncomfortable angle
that movie theater seating allows,
but comfortable in a better way
that demands more while the moment lasts.
I am left trying to play this whole
"don't engage her as soon as she gets online,
don't be that guy" mentality
as I sit and stare at the green dot next to her name
in agony,
just wanting to read the words she might write back
in response an hour or two later,
her nonchalant-ness sincere against my feigned.

Is this desperation, as a mutual friend once told me?
Is the faded attraction to other women,
the lack of interest in others invitations to intimacy,
all a sign of desperation?
I feel desperate, but only for her.
It is like a sickness,
a fever.
I ache for her,
like a symptom.

Anxiety has become my bed fellow.
She knows so much about me,
but it has been so long,
does she remember who I am?
Am I remembering her correctly?
Does her voice really sing against my eardrums
with debilitating intoxication
as she laughs with such freedom
at my remarks on…
whatever?
Do her lips taste that sweet,
deeply pressing into my own,
stirring the desire into enchanting shapes
as they spin sensually across my eyelids?
How is it possible for anything to smell
or taste
so arousing,
so much like comfort,
and make the anxiety dissipate
as casually
as sand falling
through outspread fingers?

Maybe she is a dream;
if she is, so what?
Maybe she is really my dream,
and always has been.