It is not longing that I feel.
Longing has such a round and gentle flavour.
Like the melancholy of children who can enjoy the sad because they have not yet fought for the happy
And lost?
Perhaps,
Perhaps I have.
It is not seeking that I taste.
That word is far too alive for the stone in my throat and the lead in my feet.
No, if longing is sent to bed without dinner, seeking is my brother who has hidden in the basement and I hate to go down those stairs.
It is not weary, that I am.
Not entirely.
For even now I stretch and strain towards the sky that teases just past my fingertips
And I with no way to close the distance.
What I feel is higher pitched and far more desperate,
Acid in the back of my throat and a gnat in my ear at 3am.
What I feel is an aching song that rises in my chest but I don’t, and have never known, the words.
What I feel is yearning.
Gosh Darn Sunlight 