Desperation,

luke-warm, gnawing, a silk rope around your neck,

tugs at you for maniac moments,

pressing your inhibitions and

inability to connect

and find love or meaning.

 

Maybe it can't be found,

and the quiet desperation seeps in through

all the damp things we touch

no

matter

how much love warps us

or the lack of love creates necrosis.

 

Crawling in and out of bed,

drinking and touching and drinking,

and nobody finding what they are looking for.

 

The answer always loses to the question

when the asker is broken

weary

and too well-travelled.

 

It's a lie.