I feel like messaging her

It's been years since I've last heard her voice—  
touched her skin—  
breathed her in.  
I find myself stalking the deserted corridors of my past in the abandoned present.  
Holding a musky candle of the future.  
A strategic aphrodisiac to woo her from a distance.  
To lay myself bare under her gaze.  
To show her that I'm ripe for the taking.  
Perhaps always have been.  
 
A parading hirsute beast with a penchant for heartbreak.  
Hoping to be acknowledged for hunger and loyalty—  
for care and affection—  
for chaos and savagery.  
As grounded as a leaf in the wind.  
As stable as a home in a hurricane.  
As strong as radioactive decay.  
 
A foreigner in her world.  
Unaware of the madness she breeds.  
Unapologetic of the destruction she allows.  
Incapable of penetrating her—  
the walls that hold the anxiety of living in—  
echoing the name of a well-endowed dark-skinned giant.  
Probably called Jericho.  
 
Within her colosseum, I imagine a conquest far too great for mortal men to overcome.  
I want to believe that she's sick of it—  
that the revolving doors of admission have been replaced with an electric chain-linked fence.  
Boasting a sign that dissuades trespassers.  
Weary of the sweat and semen, betrayals and beatings, tragedies and tears of years past—  
I want to believe she has washed her body clean.  
 
Stricken—I long for her acceptance.  
Even though she won't accept me.  
Driven to the brink of mania—  
still clinging to a fascination that never died.  
To once again be blessed,  
by the smile that spawned a thousand poems.  
To be called out by the voice,  
that devastates every discipline.  
To be engulfed in an air of uncertainty—  
racing seconds against beats and emotions.  
To be wrapped in her embrace—  
slithering her beautiful curves over my quivering shell.  
To have her seize and choke on my rod—  
shift my gears as she pleases.  
To be fed by breasts that invoke love at first sight—  
and be suffocated until I've almost passed out.  
To be sat upon, head-locked between her soft thighs—  
by her tight, delicious, soaking wet, orifice—  
feast on the nectar of submission while her gleaming eyes celebrate my capture.  
To be licked and sucked and bitten all over—  
rabid fangs devouring every weakness.  
To be ridden like a dragon, ferocious and raw—  
relentlessly swallowing me whole.  
Hands racing to trace every inch of her divine being,  
tongues lashing out in anger and sadness—  
in ecstasy and disgust—  
in love and despair.  
To absorb her fiery flesh and vertiginous essence into my own—  
try and blend our auras into one with the faintest of hope.
 
Hope—that might never exist.  
Hope—that my devotion can be recognised, if nothing else.  
Hope—that I will be added to her collection.  
Hope—that I will be the last.