Even when I don’t want to–
when I want anything else but you,
Any name but yours–
I see my hands reaching for you.
My entire body is an arrow to yours.
Craving your terrain and the way my hands sink into it like teeth.
You are the falsest of norths,
A hometown I am ashamed to claim, and yet, refuse to leave,
A direction made entirely of memory.
I beg my heart to pick another rhythm.
Pick palpitations over this purgatory.
Here I am,
like so many times before,
ensnared in the desolate paths of you.