Point A.

 The trouble with this humanity is that you're in my blood. I drink you up like water. And I make my body yours time after time. I say: "Use it, for whatever," as if it were some piece of furniture, or some forgotten art-fixture that no one sees, and no one wants.
 We walk over the bridge and I am enamored by the city lights. They kiss the ripples of the water below us. Their voices ricochet off the crystalline surface of The Cumberland and into something heard.

They sound like 

some. small. hope. 

  And that hope is what keeps my body drawn to yours (in all the inappropriate ways futile flesh can be drawn together until its sawed apart at its tender seams).
 Sometimes, I sit on the dock of quiet sunsets. I watch the cold, steel frames of buildings-to-be going up around me. The beams sing as car lights flicker; their surfaces glisten and chime. There is eagerness in the bones of these skeletons. They wear it on their chests as a badge of honor that they will one day be called "home." In those moments I hope I can one day be called "home" too.

If I were
"Home,"
I wouldn't be 

"Just potential."

If I were
"Home,"
I wouldn't be

Dry-wall.

If I were
"Home,"

 I wouldn't be
This

Itching,
Aching
Ambition,

Suffocating
Quietly
Beneath
The
Crawlspace
Of
You. 

I would
blossom

Into something 

Breathing. 

I would be a 

Warm Haven 

That

Families 

With 

Small Children
Could

Collect themselves in. 

And I wouldn't be
Hollow
Anymore. 

And my eyes would be
Picture-windows.

And you would never be
Invited
Inside of me
Again.