que.

That I leave the window unlocked but closed. In ridiculous hopes that some sort of mockingbird should decide to do more than mirror and mimicry, and flutter into my mind and burst into flames like a phoenix only to rebuild itself from its own smoldering cinders. That I burn endless twigs of incense waiting for your smell to choke in my clothes and your taste to be hidden from my tongue. That I try to press my face into my skull and crash my thoughts in splinters of bone, but it doesn’t work. That none of these words will be heard or understood and that they don’t make a difference in my hunger for you.