The Longing Burns Away

Above me, the bricks of the ancient tunnel,
across the way, the sunlight squandering
itself on a parking structure,
the journey I make every night towards home
ever since I left home,
aged 29, to find my new identity.
But identity cannot be found in simple actions,
or rather it takes more than one
good decision for yourself
to find yourself made whole.
My skin still prickles with yearning and
a fear of never being loved,
never being held or kissed
in love reciprocating love.

The old fear reasserts itself
in all the quiet, lonely seconds
counted out in cans of pop
and minutes ticking by
on bright computer clocks.
The fear that I may never be
loved in the way that I want to be loved,
that the starving cat of my flesh
and ashamed penitent of my brain
call for in the dark hours.

To say it is embarrassing.
To seek it complex and terrifying.
To be held in stronger hands than mine
and whispered to with sheer sincerity,
lips against ears and fingers finding each other’s.
To be told by a voice more confident than mine
that I belong to it,
and it belongs to me,
and in that belonging the longing burns away.