The panic of wanting you

comes unexpectedly, distant need

close now, roaring in my ears,

how quickly it becomes irrational.

Where are you? Where have you been?

Where are you going? How did you

survive before the day we met?

Waiting for your call, the throb

of it in my hand, signal always on,

always transmitting.

How suddenly I am in the wrong house,

my rationale pounding on the door,

picking locks, testing windows

for any entry, because even as I

temporarily lose control, both of us –

my two halves – know it's nothing more

than misplaced desire.

This is New Orleans after all,

it comes in the rain.

– Collin Kelley