It's a different kind of longing,
a throbing in my bones.
Like I'm thumbing through someone elses memories.
See, it's never me I see.
I might be going crazy.
Or something very close.
its constantly brushing my skin.
Giving me a rash.
I want it back.
A collection of dates,
drop them in the can.
For charity, for sanity.
The striking of the clock, has struck me along my face.
There's a place for the calling of your name.
In my ruby field.