the waiting void

The thought of your being
is a thing-dream
an imaginary item.
Some sort of wishlist
sits in the midst of
my pulse, and appetite,
and urges
hunger for
an unlocked door.
I hear echoes in songs
and stories and shadows.
They cascade across my skin
tumbling about my bones
swelling in my brain.
It makes no sense
this you-it-thing.
I am full enough already
with longing and wanting
and more than I can handle-
things I can touch and turn
and create. You seem still
some trick, a feint
inside myself to consume
selfhood and develop otherness
a reduction by production.
Yet, for all that, I balloon
with this hunger for growing
stretching and swelling
and cannot let it be.
The thought, though, of a
you-thing, an object-self
weighs on my mind