My friend's Father,
Who's just that,
Has a Papa Francis.
And her entire congregated family
Won't acknowledge her
Very existence.
How can she communicate.
There's a crack in the crucifix,
And it's splitting, running up the wood,
Past the cruciform,
To the Head.

Disheveled I crawl through a tunnel of my past over crumpled sheets and pillows of one man's bed, then the next, then the next and just when I think it will never end, there she lay atop a bed of orange peels and poppies, my Gemini twin, creeping grin, contagious we're vibing. Im glad there isn't a man here in dreamland tonight cuz I'm just really feelin myself.

I'm looking forward to the kisses that trace along my skin
lips kissing lips, tongue breaking skin
but then again, I could be getting a little to used to this whole celibacy thing
the idea that I have become one with myself, taking the time to get to know me again
but nothing could compare to what I have learned to conjure up deep within
the urges for affection
a good cuddle when it's all over
the arms of a man and his scent better than a blanket to cover
but the constant urges to touch
to feel
the need to be relieved of the stress
that need to have that loneliness healed
no worries about if I'm his one and only
if there is potential beyond today for love
just me, my thoughts, and perhaps a strong toy when it all becomes a bit too much