i want

i want to write until i can't feel my fingers anymore, until my arm feels like it will drop from pain but my brain which is fevered with the desire just forces me on and on and on,
i want to write about not music reviews about the total cadence of every sense that is bombarding me as i sit distracted from the spreadsheet i should be updating, write the lines of the tree fingered upward pencilled onto the grey white lines of the sky behind it, write the umbrellas and the lights on the cars hitting the light in the sky,
i want to write not beautypages but the sweat that ran down my thigh between skin and nylon tights as i whirled round the dancefloor to northern soul funk sweeping hair behind my head because now i have long hair to sweep, and the salty taste of sweat on my upper lip and the salty taste of a hint of a tear kissing as louis armstrong sings songs from james bond movies and i think yes! how perfect,
i want to write deserts i haven't seen but which i know all about because a desert was all there was way back when, long stretches of sands over sands falling and that amazing wave effect and nothing but dryness dry waves with the consistency of coarse salt for i know deserts, i have written them many times and i will so again,
i want to write mountains,
i want to write the touch on my skin that sends shivers and the touches that came before which i left behind but which make me smile on memory and on thought and the simplicty of recognising a smile that even now is reserved just for me, a look in the eyes which is shared, now with you,
i want to write of the crumbs that fall when i take the first bite of a croissant in bed for breakfast with scalding coffee that i gulp too quickly because i want