It's not the ***.
It's holding your hand in mine
It's the feeling of my head on your chest
And your arm around my neck
Cradling me softly like lovers do.

It's not the ***.
It's the way your eyes,
Your cold blue eyes cut through my body
Whispering to me secrets, about myself
Things I never knew I needed to know.

It's not the ***.
It's not even you, really.
It's your voice, your mannerisms.
The familiarly we share, an intimate sort of history
More intimate than the act itself.

I'm not in love with you.
I don't know if I ever was, in our previous lives.
But here, in this lonely desolate world
Your eyes consume me, and
I think of nothing else.