Numbing Agents

Spread a thought of you, spread an image of you across a hole in me. 

Fix me, even if temporarily. Give me a thin veneer and a paper-sheer cover. Clothe me in the lightest, most briefest of thoughts. 

Let tea leaves of you join the boiled parts in me, spreading a dark warming substance of our mixings like a tea that I can then drink you in, warming, numbing. Take a taste yourself, past your lips and let the honey of you sweeten it further. 

I ache. 

I adore. 

I let the puncture wounds of a day staple me with their mundane and trivial purposes. I put a finger or two on a few to no avail. 

A thought of you paper cuts my mind. And sits there, waiting as I go about my day until it catches on something unexpected and fucking reopens. 

No cloth or gauze to hold over, and if applied would only see the bloom of you expanding in a color beneath it. 

I prefer you in my bloodstream where you can course in a hot blend and blur versus the cold gap in my mind when you imprison me in fine icy crystals. But still cannot stay numb. 

The burn of you I can absorb, as the skin scorches and dies and blackens. The ice of you I cannot. 

It is why I seek to find small pieces of you, small parts of you to plug these tiny holes that you have left in me.  Remnants. Discards. 

I will take what I can take, to be able to be numb, just for a moment, even though you may be so very close to me.