The Widower’s Confession

I guess I was so starved for human affection that, 
I confess,
I let the barista's eyes hold me in a long caress

It was nothing, of course, as we stood there dressed 
In the polite niceties of daily intercourse, 
My throat hoarse for a whisper to be heard
Because, of course, there’s a part of every soul that wants to be deceived and doesn’t mind a line
“I’m fine” works swell for kindling a connection
And so I’ll pretend that we’re connected
Becoming the mark in my own long con

Sometimes a simple “please" or “thank you” can make me feel a part of something bigger 
It’s meager fare, but enough to remember the delight of sparks, without risking fire
So strange is desire: we avoid the thing we want

I heard a sex worker on the radio saying that sex has very little to do with it
It’s about people feeling they have a place, and that they are cared for, 
It’s an emotional connection, she said
I startled inside me as I hurtled down the highway, saying, “It’s fake!”
You can’t pay for such things, after all 

But, them again, some part of the heart knows and doesn’t care that the feeling costs a wad of green 
It just wants someone to stare,
Because that’s how very hungry we are:
Lungs screaming for air 
Ground so bone-thirsty-dry, we lap up water and cry for more

All this I reflected on as I sat in the dentist chair and the breasts of the dental tech brushed against me and I moved away while everything within me thrilled at the rush of a human being, greater than my guilt
I felt the need for blood and skin and understood why people go free-wheeling in violence
Or have a moment where they throw off their mask and go sailing head over heels into the winds of a great fire 
Burning out as a meteor on the sky in the great conflagration of their life
Because, my friends,
We all need to feel alive