Recently I am finding it difficult to understand longing and where it stems from. I find it impossible to distinguish whether it is out of love, lust, or loneliness, (or none of these things (or all of them)) that I think these thoughts, speak those words, attempt without (conscious) intent, eye this or that portion of cloth with a tacit, maybe at times even fervent, understanding of the flesh underneath it, kiss your (but not your) neck with reckless tenderness in dreams, frighten myself with the idleness of my silence when I am awake, and in summary slowly drown myself in dissonance on a daily basis.
Selfless is a horrible word when looked at closely.
