I always seem to run into you

when I'm damaged; my bruises thrill

to your touch, and your kisses taste

like the distillation of fermented honey,

making me drunk and warm. The holes

in my body stop bleeding, gape, 

mouth strange words I've almost forgotten

how to articulate. You ground in me like lightning,

muttering about how you don't like coming so fast.

We talk more. How little we have in common - 

politics, religion, all things of importance left unmentioned

besides the mutual need for balm, 

a burning hunger that crops up

when least expected.