taxis

Somewhere
between desire and demand
there is taxis.

You can't understand me,
I'm a mass of unarticulated urge.
How can I put this into words?

I've no scene,
no ritual to cleanse myself,
just this nameless unease in my forearms
(probably resulting from unaccustomed freedom).
I don't want it, I don't need it,
but mindless, I seek it out:
It would be glory,
to feel your arm reach out,
wrap itself around my hair,
pull my head down into your water,
and hold it there till
I ache for you to kiss your breath
into my lungs.
It would be glory,
except that I have spoken it,
and it's lost its magic.

I get down on my knees,
but just to cry from frustration,
because I can't speak my mind.
Certainly not on your command.
Somewhere
between your legs
there is taxis.