it kills me
that kiss
took almost
a year to
find
it doesn't
move the way
i do
and i am
stunned
that the same
peck, pucker and press'd
imperfection
pauses
enough
for me to ponder
why i even
found comfort
in nothing more
than a mere
absolution
of yet another
mask i've gotten
comfortable
giving
instead
of
taking
and i sigh
in resignation
at the portion
of me that i
am now inclined
to decline
softly
with whispers
no one hears
except the one
who looks at me
through half-shut
hope and laughter
without cause
without pain
without expectation
except explanations
that i'm not afraid
of sharing, pairing
with tempered
beats that allow
a hand 'neath
m'heart
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