The Electricity of Words (diary excerpt)

If souls could speak and the waves could lap at them, would they groan like aging timber?

If I could question you without an unsure voice, would you want me to? Are you as afraid to ask the questions as you are to know the answers? Doesn't it hurt not to know, to know that you don't, and to be awake forever? If souls could speak, their language would be electricity. Words are useless without memory, and a memory devoid of dialogic script isn't a memory at all.* I always remember you. Your arms, your warmth, your closeness. Your eyes, the tears they confused me with. Your voice and the strained realism.. How many nights? How many nights were we together out of all the nights my mind was nestled upon your chest? How many words were shared which made memories to tell me I should love you?

Words we give feelings never matter, though we can share one emotion through feeling it ourselves. You smile, and it strikes my heart like lightning. My face freezes and my skin turns white as I feel the explosion...
Desire. I hate desire, but it is all I am. What is it? A need? What is want? How do I know who I am if I don't know my desires? Why does it change and abuse us? Most times, I am unsure. If one vein in your neck would show, just one, I would drink you.

Would it taste like honey, like salt? I want to know, I want you to be scared and satisfied. What better use for teeth than as a sexual organ? I only need a nick, a little cut into your existence.. to swallow, to inhale, for my tongue to bathe in. Tender droplets would race across your neck and against my lips, as if they know where they belong. I would lick the wound, every tantalizingly fleshy edge, and never get enough. Your skin teases me like a soul teases logic. If you could learn to speak as well as your blood, I might grow to need you. What could be more joyous than existing as a willing slave to your lover, devoid of wants that aren't your own?

Give me an answer, a name. Tell me it's a game, just tell me it won't stay the same. It takes so little to change the world, and given I believe each person is a world of their own.. are my desires so surreal?
A picture is worth a thousand words, yet when I write a poem, I try to paint a picture with them. Each word you speak in conjunction with another paints a thousand pictures, and when lined up with one another like a mosaic, it defines your ideas, your character, your existence, and even those that surround you.

Through conversation you gift a world onto my shoulders, a universe of perceptions and puzzles of personality. I can see the love in your life, your desire for vengeance, and your longing to be understood in a simple sentence. Through knowing someone I adopt a world, and sometimes, I forget which one is mine.

*We think in language. All I'm saying is I've never recalled a memory without the inner monologue that went with it: my commentary, my reaction, both emotional and physical, is all language.