I Think It Was the Open Window

I have spent so many nights  
on that summer bed  
with the window open by my head.  
I would fall asleep  
to cool April air in my chest  
and far-off, fiery streetlights in my eyes.  
The dusty smell of the screen  
still casts its spell on me these days...  
 
Oh, but back then,  
I would sing to it  
or just inhale it,  
and in the same way music can move you  
or touch can excite you,  
I'd be dying to bow down  
to this desire I couldn't name,  
much less comprehend...  
 
And without fail,  
some baby stain  
would spit in my blood -  
it'd tickle my veins  
with this  
absolute  
roar  
of an urge,  
a refrain;  
and my mind would race  
and my muscles would twitch  
and all four chambers of me  
would just  
itch.  
 
All I could do  
was ache to move.  
 
Move.  
 
I had no way to manifest it then,  
no car keys,  
street smarts,  
gateway friends;  
the emotion would simply  
crawl over my skin,  
so I was cheated -  
a given who couldn't give in,  
I was stupidly safe,  
wastefully clean,  
feeling nothing  
and desperate  
to feel  
anything -  
 
I've been asked why I sneak out  
on Tuesday nights  
to make love to booze  
or weed  
or guys,  
and as much as I wish  
that the answer was deep,  
the truth is, quite simply,  
I can't handle sleep;  
can't stomach the thought  
of dying one day  
and having not felt  
 
life threaten me.  
It can't;  
it barks at me  
but has no teeth.  
I want terror,  
and you can't find that in sleep.  
I want the beat in my chest  
to be less surreal to me  
than hearing his thunder,  
than drinking to heaves;  
 
I want to lose everything  
and be forced to rebuild myself  
with no help,  
out of my own ashes -  
no phoenix -  
just whatever shapes I can  
press the dust into.  
 
I am going to die one day.  
Why lie still?  
I hear  
carnival sounds  
and diesel engines  
and wild laughter  
through the walls.  
The moon wears this  
irresistible cologne:  
secondhand cigarettes  
and marijuana;
pheromones  
and cheap alcohol.  
I twitch  
with this age-old thirst
for a breath of it  
until I'm finally
dragged outside  
by my voracious desire to feel something.  
That perfume  
smells something  
like my holy grail,  
and it  
gets through the windows -  
down alleys and trails,  
through this cheap polyester reality-veil;  
to the end of my days,  
till it's all been inhaled,  
I'll give in to the itch  
I can't scratch with my nails;  
for what good is a need  
when it's broken and stale? -  
 
what good is a tongue  
if it can't taste the night,  
and for what good is longing  
without a reply?