I watch you reading in dim light by the fireplace, whiskey in hand, cigar burning slow and fragrant. I light my cigarette and sit by myself out on the back patio fucking around on my phone for a bit before I slide it back in my pocket and steal glimpses of you through the floor-to-ceiling window. A rough wind disrupts the silence of the night and a tornado of dried leaves swirls around me in the open air. After all this time you have become a home to me, one I swear I never wanted, yet here we are making a go at us day after day after year after year. Watching you read is a sort of secret high. I want to crawl into your mind and slither through each and every thought you have, like a snake sliding smooth on its belly in the dirt toward its prey. I want to feel your pleasure as you make connections in your brain. How the machinery of the universal mind clicks forward inside your every synapse. There is something about intellect that arouses all my senses, makes my body ache and yearn for touch as though touch itself were a form of higher intelligence. If done right, it is. With skill, attention, care, tenderness, earnestness, need. Emotion made tangible. Edible. I want your eyes to take me in as you teach me about the darkness that is the unknown parts of myself surfacing, shy, soft, alive. Drink me into your heightened awareness of this big bad world. Collect me piece by piece the way you collect dazzling embers of hot burning insight. Open up your smooth ripe mouth and make me feel what I am made of. Please speak the words. Please tell me exactly where I belong because all my life I have been on the outside trying to get in.