I must stop thinking about him or I shall go mad.  It’s best not to dwell on things that are unreal.  Even a child knows when to stop pretending.

But I cannot help myself.  I don’t believe he knows just how badly I want him.  Or, how I lie awake at night aching with desire.  He’s never asked me how I feel or what I want.  Instead he keeps me suspended and I wonder how long this purgatory will last.

It’s enough to drive me out of my mind.  I don’t want to play the politely interested friend anymore.  Friends don’t torment each other with sighs and vague promises of heated coupling in the dark.  Yet he shows no inclination to make good on his word, and I’m beginning to despair that it shall never be realized.

This is a torture that no one should experience.  It’s a demanding and fretful creature that if not appeased soon, shall rip me apart.  I can feel it now, tearing at my flesh and goading me into arousal so acute that it’s almost unbearable.

I can do nothing to stop it; even my own body betrays me.  Never have I so intensely loved and desired another.  I didn’t think I was capable of passion this furious and deep, but yet I am.  It’s wild and without logic and I don’t care if it dashes me to pieces on the rocks.  I’d rather be fractured and bloodied than to have never known this bliss.


2 Responses to “HANGING IN LIMBO”

  1. James Williams Says:

    Very blunt imagery to give impetus to a force of its own type of longing. I did not know you could write also.

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