I search for her pages when
the well of my soul has run dry,
finding solace in the beauty
of poetry whispered to fingertips.
I close my eyes and imagine words
wrapped around my parched tongue,
intoxicated by the milk and honey
that trickles from this divine lexis.
I drink until I’ve neared my fill,
pulling on the poetic breast
as my hands reply to her thoughts,
a lust for verse transferred
to a screen in swift keystrokes.
But the longing remains, ever present
and pulsing beneath the skin,
a glorious gluttonous appetite
that can never be truly satisfied.
The well runs dry again and again;
I search, I find, I drink.
Copyright © 2010 by Christopher Chaffin – All rights reserved