May I hold you? May I squeeze the persimmon fruit

that is you

and drink? 

This body has wont

to shiver towards you, to extend arm and to spread fingers and clutch your shoulder. 

What’s become of 

the fledgling, 

the fragile bird that stumbled from your rich brown nest;

where have I gone? I am without 

the drum cover, the skin, taut about hungering, holding the desire in. 

You are but inches

from the chest, 

this cavity that is moaning, vessel being buried beneath the weight of 

sea;

closeness, is not enough. If some gods

do allow, 

I shall swallow you straight into me.