This maddening itch in my heart is like–

• poison woven into tissue,
  sepsis radiating from the site
  where unspoken words putrefy
  in anger and hope, toxifying
  blood, anxious for salve.
• dreams and wishes withering
  under reality’s hot sun, lost;
  an empty hole in a brick wall
  betraying its completion;
  absence yearning for touch.
• desire unnamed, the chafing
  of which tears the hole wider,
  fraying thread and loosening
  buttons until the entire fabric
  compels thorough refashioning.
• a deep wound beginning to heal,
  pain throbbing and dissolving
  per some strange rhythm, work
  which scratching would undo,
  requiring patience, toleration.