Every morning when I wake up, I am starving. It is not a hunger you can quench, though you feed me stars and moons and try to tempt me with tears stolen from forever.
I rinse my mortality in wine. White and blue cobblestones warm in the sun. My cool feet liven at earthen touch. Through the stone, I feel the music awaken with a roar.
In the silence between daybreak and noon, I bleed through my skin. My soul is ablaze; if I appear stagnant, it is you who stares through torpid veil.
Let me eat passionfruit and feast on coffee foaming with Brazilian heartache and love. With this, figs to kiss the tongue and brie that defies it earthly shell.
Though you are full, suddenly you are hungry. I am not eating for you. I eat for myself.