It’s natural to want to be close, but craving is an addiction,
a forward pitch of the body before the soul agrees,
like reaching for a railing that isn’t there,
muscles tightening around the idea of support.

We confuse nearness with relief, urgency with truth,
stand too close to the fire and call the burn intimacy;
the pulse quickens, the breath shortens its leash,
and sensation is crowned king of meaning.

Craving lives in the small tremors of the day —
the blank phone screen blue,
the ear tuned for footsteps that aren’t coming,
the glance that keeps checking the door.

It is the feeling of an empty chair pulled up to the table,
a place setting waiting to justify the meal;
we ask another person to sit there,
so we don’t have to face the quiet appetite alone.

The hunger is not for bodies or voices or touch,
but for an inner coherence that slipped out of patience;
we outsource steadiness, rent reassurance,
borrow reflection to feel outlined.

Without that inner anchoring, desire grows sharp edges,
turns circular, rehearses the same questions;
we replay moments like worn photographs,
hoping repetition will turn them immutable.

Let breath arrive, and then something rethreads itself,
attention returning to its own moment;
the nervous reach relaxes its grip,
and the room feels wider without changing shape.

From here, closeness becomes clean and optional,
a meeting rather than a requirement;
love steps in without needing to rescue,
and craving loosens its pinched claws.