Herion Angel

To sit there and burn with the knowledge that your hand is so close, so close to me. Not quite touching, but we both know you want to. I want you to. All the cells that compose my body are screaming in longing, aching, calling out to your cells. The purposeful placement of your hand leaves me breathless, fills my heart with fire. My brain keeps seeing that scene in my  head, wishing for a different ending. Do you see how you torture me? I need a taste, but I'm scared to take it myself.

I dreamed last night about a continuation of our conversation on the phone. In an odd twist of irony, there were no outspoken words, just the two of us in pain and silence. You filled a pad with the words I wished you would have really said: "You are the one I want to be with." A silent dream was never more loud. Waking up was never more painful.

Should I tell you of my dream? How I want you, too? That you could be the motivation I told you (foolishly) I didn't possess? I should. But I probably never will. Passive and fearful. When it comes down to it, I'm scared that I will break promises and break hearts. Break ME. My carnal nature wants you and knows that if I have even one little taste---I'll go back down that road, a road I swore a hundred times I'd never even go near. But here I am, standing at the crossroads, toying with the thought of pursuit. Wondering if things will be different this go 'round.

The temptation of your drug is too much and I don't know how long I can resist.

Rehab is not working.

I want my Heroin Angel.