Two evenings together;
there are large chunks
of conversation that I
will never remember
because we were both
******.

You told me a couple
stories that were hard
to hear, and even
harder to look you in
the eyes after hearing.
And those were the good
stories.

You were vague, but I
used my imagination to
fill in the gaps with
grace.


I shied away from your
glances. I forced myself
to look away from your
****. You did have nice
ones, though.

You let me kiss you, you
kissed back. I pulled
away, silenced, finally
begging your eyes to meet
mine. You kept them closed,
or when you opened them you
let them dart, keeping a
peeping tom from seeing
into your windows.

Maybe you had worse stories
than I could ever invent.
Maybe you found someone else.
Maybe I was too *****, too
gentle...
Maybe you realized you were
too close to a madman.

I'll never know, and I'll
never ask for you back.