I move to fillup space. I am movedto make full that which hungers. By age ten, I lovedto climb down into the caves and pressmy body to the cool sandstone that has forever smelled of fertile silence, between the breathless blackjaws of some unclaimed tomb no bigger than my own living vessel, I wouldrest.The earth himself would hold me within my body’s borders, tuck me beneath his tongue tosmother my unyielding urge to gobbleup stagnant spaces like a rabid dog who can’t bear to waste a dropof this free life. When you leftI did not stay on my side of the bed. I swelledout like the tide until I tookup this whole ocean of quiltI pourmy blind and gaseous longing like wet smokeinto the awkward pits at dinnerparties, disguised in a charadeof mirth, playing the hysteric fool tounite strangers in their incredulity-it was meant to be a gift.They say life is not perfectbut the craving for life isPerfect. It was meant to be a gift but all too often I swallowup the many timbred voices that composea well-cultivated room, exhuming and exhausting myself asa black hole must exhaust herself from kissingthe mirror again and againuntil lipstick mars the emptinessthat gazes back at me,filling me with hercraving.