The urge swells in me
More potent now than
Even the most turgid adolescent lust
Memories of which continue to haunt
Taunting recollections of the kind of fool I was
As opposed to the kind of fool I am
And I would put my hand to its ease
As I am not alone in having done
And to distraction on more occasions than is
Comfortable to recount
But there is all to little there to grab
And my fingers feel too empty when they close
Wrist feeling no resistance as the arm jerks
Again and again and again
Leaving nothing leaking out

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