Returning.

Another step back.

I just hope it's not a farewell in a history of them. Each time I think I smother you and try not to be a controller, it's taken for rejection.

That's who I am. Your friends are now yours, since that's what they were. I barged in, painted all over the walls. I'd scream it from the rooftops, and maybe that's what I do.

Daily.

Tantric, you said. I, who deny the existence of a soul, dream a million ways to fuse with you, to honour every inch of you just the way it clamours to be.

To melt into you and you into me: sound, sight, touch, taste, smell, proprioception, cognition. Hours, you say? Lifetimes, death and reincarnation in you, oblivion in ecstasy in me. Androgyne reborn as Plato didn't even have a clue.

The deepest ache in my centre, hungering in more ways than I know. So primal, primeval.

And you want me to hate you as a way to forget? I'd only bleed, you know that now, or should.

I can take and abide rejection, even by you. I can take the silence, though it's poison. I cannot take the way we parted, when it was so close, and when I was needed in more ways than one.

...and you never left. Not for a second. You're here though you're not.

There will be psychobabble from those who'd call any desire or its lack an illness. For whom to eat too little, too much or too balanced is regarded as a disorder.

For whom the desire of the slave to be free was considered a disease, who made their fears a modus vivendi. For those who'll sit at a terrace tonight in Madrid, Zaragoza or Jaen, not daring.

From those unlucky to get cut and who decided not to chance another fall.

From those stupid enough to think they can grasp a mind's workings in under 140 characters.

I'll scream, because I've got something worthwhile to fight for.

You in my life, just any which way you want. Just any, I'll seize