Till at Last

It is of the most terrible of pains; this emptiness
-- Completely hallow, and scathingly devoid.
In the lacking thereof, a sweetened and tender kiss,
The sweep of a strong hand caressing
In the most gentle of fashion,
Arms laden with the power to keep away the turmoil.
The ache lives there, alone within my void,
Stinging at every sight of a happy young couple holding hands
As they walk together through their fused life,
Or a man bearing his pride in the gift his lover bestowed.
With every second, minute, hour
It festers within my lonely heart,
This terrible pain.
Till at last, weary from a day full of reminders of withheld love,
I crawl into the soft comfort of my bed,
And draw the many blankets about my body --
Losing myself in an ocean of flower printed fabrics,
As I finally drown in the mists of my own despair.
Jealousy flooding past my emotional blockades,
Yielding to the overwhelming pain of my impoverished soul,
Hungering for the quixotic dream of the feeling
Of a hot breath against the back of my neck,
Legs entangled, arms looped tightly about my waist,
Touch of skin upon my own, hair tickling my sensitive nerves,
Sweet sounds of my name spoken with the rich timbre of masculinity,
Combined Venus and Mars laughter sprung from our infectious euphoria,
The beating of a heart, not my own, yet mine
--  Taken and given with perfect love and with perfect trust,
And mine given and taken with perfect love and with perfect trust --
All of this within the most terrible of pains,
Of emptiness; devoid and lonely.
Full of cravings for all that I do not have.
I do not have.
Nor will I;
I believe not ever.