insatiate

i hate it when you breathe. breathing has too many connotations: of implied thought, of emotion, of potential for ruin. i want to feel you next to me, warm and silent and still, eyes opening and closing without movement when i want them to, arm over my waist but not heavy, not lifeless, only inanimate: deaf dumb and blind, dead in all respects but one; your warmth. this is my ideal you, my comforting angel, my uncomplicated refuge.

if this were a perfect capture, an accurate portrayal of the synthesis of heart and mind, of the real desire... you wouldn't understand it anyway.