Flesh

I know what the city feels like against my sticky body.  I know what the echoing moans of my desire sound like when they rise into the sky of my apartment.  For a solid year now, I haven't been able to think about the gentle touch of a man or a woman or anyone, even myself.  I close my eyes and dream of the dirty gutters, the sewer rats running madly upon the graying sidewalks.  I think about the cobblestones, the chatter at the corners as the buses turn onto the block.  That's the only way I can get an orgasm now - focusing on the concrete jungle that surrounds me.

I don't have any flesh to feel comfortable with.  I don't have any warm smiles to help me suffocate in desire, in love.