Creaks of the Voice

With the end
growing nearer
every passing hour,
the windows stay white
and cool down
while I stare myself blind
trying to find the sources of sounds outside.

The cicadas remind me of you.
They whir loud and angry
and invisible,
the little ghosts of trees,
manufacturing beauties
heard, never seen -

you'd think I'd find
some kind of solace
in the dwindling down of days,
but
this want for your presence
has been born in my heart
over and over again,
in anguishes ever-stronger,
over labors ever-longer;
pining pumps proud
from my hands to my mouth,
keying the walls
of each capillary:
it's desire seeping out
of me
in the midnight-sweating, forbidden,
forgetting
creaks of the voice,
floating out as I imagine you
giving me what my hands
simply
can't -
slipping down the floor
in the wake of the door -
squeaking soft
through the walls
of this house.