preference of solitude

I yearn for touch,
not the warmth so required by others
but the feeling of control.
I need the feeling of the outliers;
cold as marble or hot as flame.
The inbetween is too sweet, too tender,
too comfortable.
It is in the foggy middle ground that I would let the mask fall,
let the threads unravel and strangle anyone in their path.
I would attach myself and in doing so,
loose apart of myself to another.
The only part that keeps me going.
I yearn for anti-passion.
Give me physical attraction.
Give me distraction.
Give me ten minute bliss.
Give me a break.
Leave me;
alone.