I plod along at a snail’s pace. A desire for slow, inefficient love. Saliva along folds of unwashed skin. Crawling, clawing, long and howlsome moans. A need for softness, to hold someone’s clammy hand in mine. A wet kiss to a furrowed forehead. I would say that what I am is a resolute, stubborn, canine-baring beast of burden. I carry hopes that I prefer to nurture than release. They burn brightest in the dark, in the cold, lighting a path that I follow in circles, missing some crucial element that might be acceptance or might be callousness or might be you. If anything I am missing navigational ability. The only star I follow is the one directly ahead of my muzzle.