Nervous steps,
she finally took.
Courage to form a syllable.
She didn't care if he wasn't her's,
for her affection was for him, entirely.
The strong sense of hope while she looked at him,
constant tautness in her weak regions, her strong desire to cafune.
She didn't love him,
for he was art
and art was not loved, but appreciated.
He made her insides burn,
with the alternate movement of his fingers,
knew she was gone deep.
Knew she had fallen,
for he wasn't a love interest,
he was a story.
Story with each turn of page, a new chapter.
Passionate, fervent
his thoughts differed.
Encircled arms around hourglass waists,
she wanted to relish him,
for him to be all her firsts.
Gone too deep,
She knew she had it,
Down there, strong clenches.
She dreamt him,
imagines into reality.
She didn't care if he wasn't her's.
She adored his intense love,
for his love.
Knew she would never be the girl he sincerely cherished,
but that did not stop her.
From keeping a special part of her, for him.

Cathartically,
she wasn't suffering,
for this was the kind of love, without him being with her.

He was the matutine,
and she was the night.
They were meant to interlace, but never seen together.

   ~ kc.
            23.4.16