My desire for her wells and wells without release. I am unequipped to sink as deeply into the ocean of her as my heart alone would, if not encased in my clumsy corporal form. I pull her body close to mine, constrict my embrace until she says I must be gentle, but still, she comes not near enough. The water to which my lustful flesh would have my horse heart led is obvious, trite—a played-out platitude. I have drunk myself to drunkenness from that fount. I have splashed like a child in the shallows along the surface and held my breath to swim deep into the depths until my lungs screamed, but I never reached the bottom and always returned gasping for air and exclaiming, “There is no end to this wonder!” But even swimming starts to seem like walking to one who spends too long in the water. And then, to make the long-time swimmer walk again, where then does their desire to swim satiate itself? Bathing in public water fountains, perusing fish aisles at pet stores. It is agony, yes, but sweet agony. Like hunger before a meal. The first bite is the best. The second, third, and so on are increasingly unconvincing impostors of the true taste in the first. But even before the first. What taste is there already in hunger? Standing in the kitchen, smell is a stand-in. Far away from even hope of food, stranded in the desert, memories of taste remain. But alas, here I am, in an oasis of her—sleeping in the same bed, seeing her naked, holding her. All but the deep drink. Like Tantalus, except the fruit lays itself in my palm and the water rises almost to my lips, and it is only my obstinate attempts to channel my natural inclinations in wide circles that loop back around to the same inclinations in the end. But not all in vain, as I have found new ways of loving her, and thus have grown arms longer and stronger for reaching around and holding the ever-expanding ocean of her.