I am not content
with crumbs from your table
with bones bereft of meat.
I want more than gristle,
ashes in my mouth.
Your arms cannot hold the heat
from a single candle.
How then can they hold me?
Your eyes look outward, yet
You do not see me anymore.
I am not content
with crumbs from your table,
with cold hands and dying embers.
I want the touch of lips,
instead of ashes, on my skin.
Copyright © J.S. White
The Writings of J.S. White 