I can see you in my mind’s eye, even as I pretend to not notice you staring at me. Your shyness endears me, just as your confidence inflames me.
All I smell is your perfume: heady, like a room full of opium fumes, giving me delusions about you. How I wish to be Marco Polo, even though I know there’s no Silk Road.
I can hear your voice in my head. There is no escaping this waking nightmare, my siren. My ship will break upon your rocks, right between Scylla or Charybdis. It matters not, for I am lost. What an Odyssey.
And I can taste you. Your sweat, on those afternoons in your concert jungle by the beach. My beard grew full, strong, nourished from drinking deep at your altar as i paid homage to the god between your legs. I worshipped with abandon. I never thought about what happens to a worshipper abandoned by his deity.
I cannot feel you anymore. You are gone with what is left of me.