The Itch

You have me,
both frequently and disjointedly,
flitting in your world and holding onto your words.
 
I'm on fire from the fear of this and it and all that's becoming and growing and expanding up these walls and over our heads and under our skin, the everything and nothing that is stitching us together.
These ties, these loose bricks that solidify joining us in permanence.
I feel ready.
 
I'm on fire with the heat from daring, from fairing the stormy weather and caring enough for you that you excite my bones with such execution that I find it difficult to explain, to convey and sometimes display my need and want to tear off your clothes with my teeth.
 
These words that spurt about the page are all that consumes me and are the breaks between the consumption of you.
 
I'm on fire, just for knowing you, just for having the lucky fortune to enjoy your flesh and link it to mine every evening. Forewarning to anything of my future and anything of my past, these days were the highlight, the most satisfying and interesting and engaging and extraordinary days.
 
I look at you and I see you in the exact light I saw you in when I knew, when I lounged on a bed, in a house I didn't live in, and simply had to indulge an urge.
 
I'm on fire with you intellectually and physically and emotionally and fundamentally in my core. I have no plans except our plans and, you know, without you it would be handleable, I won't lie, but it would be far, far less nourishing for my soul.