I can’t talk to you without spilling my love and regret and hope and shame all over you. These elements fire out from my veins and my heart dies from its corresponding drought of love and agony and wanting all in the same instant, and that bleeding moment lasts as long as we’re disconnected. All of my hope was in a unity that hates me and pushes me away like a child at a fence who doesn’t understand it’s purpose. I can’t talk to you. I can’t hear from you. I want consummation, to consume you. I don’t want this egalitarian farce of a separation between the sexes. They’re meant to intertwine. They’re meant to tangle like the strands of DNA that make us. I want a great love to die to. I want you to stand to me like cleopatra. I want your hand on my chest, convincing me to avoid war on your account. If I cannot have these things, I need you to let me die. That is all there is left in me, of me.