longing

a longing sometimes
has names
and things to tether it
at other times
it is a wild flap of wings
unsure of the skies
they crawl under
for flights and fantasies
want names and things.

and yet there remain
longings
neither one nor the other
a sprinkling of both
(not enough to be them)
warming themselves
by the first fire ever made
in an ancient cave
with dancing inscriptions
long before language
could rationalise desires
under the watchful gaze of bats
and the music of rustling leaves
in a perpetual winter.

that is where i find myself
when i think of you.