The first time I spoke to you,
I knew you were someone I was capable of loving.
As I studied you, my infatuation only grew.
I dreamed about your thin pale fingers that stroked piano keys,
your melodious laugh, and the Greek God structure of your jaw,
of your pretentiousness that stemmed from secret insecurities;
and in these reveries, I fell in love with it all.
Despite my desires, however, I knew
that someone like me could never
be loved by someone like you.
So for years, I redirected my thoughts and repressed this feeling,
until we found ourselves on an unfamiliar apartment bed together,
laying silently while studying the ceiling.
And in the dark you confessed to me your tales of innocence,
and you were flattered by my distrust
of your honest inexperience with lust.
I should have known wisdom would come with the rising sun,
yet I was still convinced that it was my love you wanted to win;
all of the while, I was the naive one.
The one who allowed those pale piano playing phalanges to trace my skin,
and weave themselves through my hair and of course then,
I was the one who eagerly leaned into your lustful lips
and did not stop tasting your tongue
even when I felt the emptiness behind it.
And in the morning you were happy that it happened for your sake
but you didn't think of the fact that my heart and mind,
which troubled themselves with the thought of you for three years, were at stake.