Cravings

People have late night cravings,

Common gallivants to the stone cold fridge for a confectionary and temporary therapist.

My hands have cravings, midnight yearnings.

Where they grumble in discontent from not being able to caress your cheek.

My eyes have cravings, inducing of delirium-like mirages.

Where they paste your silhouette into the blank spots of my surroundings.

My heart has cravings of woe,

Where stints of pain sweep me into a fever.

People have late night cravings,

But they know nothing of what it’s like to crave the feeling of someone’s thumb pulse on your neck.