ap·peal /əˈpēl/
           (V).*          
I never thought I'd get caught in you
especially in this way.

There you were,
you laid there
I saw not your face
but the creases on your back
your skeleton took me
in harmony.
And it's if I had found
the cursive scripture
of your bones in the ripples
of your morning skin.

There I was,
wondering if I had even
made a slight movement
that I would harm the scene.
Maybe it was cotton, polyester
between us and the
**** charisma underneath
but it built such
awe in the vessels of my body
as it did*.

I didn't need to touch you
to get caught
in the monument that
is you,
Before the day had even started
Before the night had wanted to say
goodbye.

There is a line.
Although we lack the
mere knowledge of
even the whereabouts
of this line.
"When does one cross the line?"
When I reach into your bag and
take what's rightfully yours?
When he puts his hand under
your blouse without consent?
When you fear what you want
to tell someone
may come off as "demanding"
"When does one cross that line?"
I'm so done
with being
curious.