Lust is in the Air

 

The air clings like a lover’s arms,

Its hands grasping for mine,

Desperate, desperate longing,

a wanting, a need I can’t satisfy.

 

Or is it the other way ‘round?

Am I the one clinging, holding on,

for dear life?  Afraid to lose

or sacrifice this touch?

 

I relish in this atmospheric caress,

the cold, wet touch of the air on my skin.

It kisses at my temples, neck, lips,

and I am powerless to resist.

 

Perhaps my foolish longing for

my dreaming to be reality imbues

the wind with this passion and ardour.

Perhaps I am consumed with want.

 

The reverse is also true;

the wind is the want of my suitors.

I feel them reaching for me,

grabbing at me, grasping.

 

It is their touch I am feeling.

And the cold is my horrible fear,

my fear that not any of them

is the one who will hold me.

 

The wet temple kisses now frighten;

my indecisiveness makes each embrace

foreign and strange, and I’m unsure

what pleases and what scares.

 

Rushing towards the inside,

clawing my way through clinging mist,

I battle my way out of the love from the sky.

I know not now if it’s friend or foe.