Mad like a teardrop in a storm.

Mad like a teardrop in a storm. Effervescent and wondrous, lost in the tempest mist.

A woman's eggs are finite. A man's sperm sputters to a halt. I have a finite amount of hugs, kisses, laughs, smiles, and doting woman worship inside me.

And I've been saving it up.

You come near and the flood gates open. When you touch me I burn. Communication leaking like a sieve.

I throw it all at you. You, my highest of summits, my holiest of holies. It's an intimidating interpellation this subject position I grant you. I build you an altar that's too discomfiting, too tight, form fitting. My worship is oppressive. Hit me. Are you there? I'm here. I force you back from a distant look. I'm afloat in your ocean. I'm afraid. It's dark in here. Perhaps I shouldn't do this. I'm not in control either, and I'm taking advantage of you. I want to hug you, but that would kill the moment, snuff the flame. I burn. Your face is burnt from a beauty therapy. You avoid the sun until you heal. You drown the pain in pills and alcohol. I am pain. You soften my fall.

No, I don't have a potato fetish. I liked it when you fed me, but I was also afraid when you got near. I fear losing control. I fear losing my composure. I want to be the private dick, the private eye. You can be my Girl Friday. I'm the brains. You're the beauty. We're an operation. I keep a bottle of whiskey and a .38 in my drawer. One or the other. I'm on the case. You hand me the note. You pick up my dry cleaning. "A man needs a maid," quotes Neil Young. You complete me. Do I complete you?

I'm mad like a teardrop in a storm. Effervescent, meaningful, lost in the tempest mist.