You couldn't hold me.
Your focus always shifted,
and I was left as an afterthought, dangling in your arms.

You couldn't kiss me.
My passionate lips always craved more than your simply  graze.

You couldn't love me.
I waited, my chest open, heart exposed for the rush of heat
from your soul to mine.

Sometimes heartbreak is quiet
and slow.  it doesn't explode in anguish, or scream in
torment. It cries softly,
with each disappointment,
stacked in memory
like books along a shelf.