Loneliness grows poor analogies...

Drinking whiskey is almost a hug.

              Makes every breath taste better,

              move slower, feel smoother—

                     stretches my chest,

                   bulbs my stomach,

                sighs my eyelids closed.

Really, almost a hug, I suppose.

Punching myself is almost a hug.

              Radiates from point-of-contact,

              leaves a warm afterglow—

                     pressed patch of skin blushing,

                   pregnant with affection,

                puffed out waiting for another dose.

Really, almost a hug, I suppose.

Tracing soft veins with fingernails

              scraping is almost a hug. Imagining

              they're a knife the way I

                         imagined you were a salve,

                       diving beneath my skin,

                    opening up pores that I couldn't

Let loose alone. Almost a hug, along cold bones.

Shouting at myself “Come Back!Stop it! 

              You fool,” is almost a hug. Hearing 

              that someone cares, if only

                        my voice on my ear moves: 

             “I am

                      worth waking up; 

     I am better here 

                   than gone.” 

                                      Almost a hug—or maybe

                                            not? 

I haven't 

been hugged in so so long.