I want

I want to be
Plath's Elm tree,
burnt, scorched to the core,
radiographed to the roots,
suffering the atrocity of sunsets.

I don't want to linger,
staring at the sky.
I want to be nailed across your sky,
your blue black, ephemeral abstract sky,
your vermilion sky.

I am tired of waiting
for the perfect poem.
I want the waters of poetry
to rise, the ink of my hands
tracing the outline of your face
on these blank sheets.

I want the peace of having you,
not the vagueness of promises,
or the thickness of your silence
cascading
the hurt of my night.

I want
the musk of kisses and
the neurotic's agitation.
I want the stickiness
of paranoia, the roughness of need.

I don't want philosophy.
I like the tremor of poetry,
the ravishing of love, the unhesitant
thud thud, beat beat
tachycardia of my heart.

I want
the coarseness of a few
promises.
Dull slow flame
lingering across a festering love.
Come back.