Intensity

I want intensity.

A spike of adrenaline you'd get from hanging by your last finger on the ledge overhanging a vast, uncompromising, swirling black hole.

I want fear.

The controlled, skin deep fear that you’d get from a really scary movie about a man that murders lone women in their homes and then realizing you left the door unlocked and was that a rattle of the door knob beyond the pitch black hallway in your apartment?...

I want a thrill.

The kind of thrill you get in the peak of rough sex that reminds you of being at the top of the tallest rollercoaster without a strap in,

I want to scream.

A good hard scram so loud that my voice is lost to the wind and the police except to find a body,

I want her.

I want to forego all the soft cuddly ness of our life and sip a bottle of the moment she looks into my soul and brushes her skillful finger through her thick and flowing waves; causing my heart to race so hard it pounds out of my chest onto the floor where it flops like a fish in a pool of blood.

I want intensity.

The kind of intensity that would slice a scar into my uncalloused hands, and put me breathless, on my ass, begging for another go.