it was a movement.
one of a brother,
a mother,
a father.
but not a movement
of a lover.
the way your lips
so gently brushed mine
was not beautiful.
the delicacy was displaced.
in traveled the nonchalance.
they call it a peck.
It swayed like a shock wave.
such a minute movement.
shockingly appalling.
shockingly chaotic.
there was
no love.
no embrace.
no heat.
but rather the
indecisive movement.
of the cold
and the ashamed.