The Hole
In the park, there are week-end lovers, families, dog and an occasional lone man, all models of our society and "that" building. I stay back and watch, wait, anticipate.
It's lonely, it's anonymous, it's customarily quick.
You're relieved but rarely satisfied.
A hole that drags you back, like the waves on a churning beach, back from the far away horizon, back to the beach, back to the park, back to that secret hole.
It's also excitement, its adrenaline.
Excitement of being caught, of being seen, of not knowing him. It's warmth, attached, that unidentified hand that longingly dances under the wall.
Fingers that beckon and play with your soul, tormenting you, creating that burning desire. Touching anxious flesh.
Holes that promise warmth and satisfaction, uplifting, exciting.
Promises written on the wall, but they never return.
"No old, no fat."
"Leave a time and date!"
His phone number, scratched and rewritten then scratched again, disguised, but I read and dream, will he be the one?
Footsteps, more promises, more disappointments, but never satisfaction only fleeting relief.
Never speaking a word.
The hole, it is within me?