Singed

I don't know if this poses a problem. That whenever I'm not with you I find myself some sort of incomplete. I itch and fidget and yearn for something I can't seem to pinpoint. Like the unexplainable twitch of the eyelid oweing to luck or an omen of some sort. And then there's the ache in my loins and the familiar echo of a laugh or a soft whimper or a whispered declaration of affection. The occasional grazed inner lip, and I know it is you. 

It is always you.

I crave you as soon as we are apart and it's a hunger I cannot fix until I am with you again. And even then my gums tingle and itch for more. I need to have you fill the tiniest gaps between my teeth and the hairs on my forearms and spaces between nail and bed. Even then I may still need you to permeate my every cell, alive or dead, I want to breathe you.