Remove all artifice (if that is ever possible), and this is all that's left of me. Not need. But want.
This has made me who I am.
The restlessness and the wrangling. The careless wilting of flowers.
The insatiability of it all.
But I am not getting any younger, and not every morning is as forgiving as the other.
This want has brought me this far.
This light. This water.