One word, your word,
and my stomach begins to writhe.
I fight myself from the inside,
shaky hands that actually look fine.

I hide in the crook of your
shoulder;
my face a stone, reflecting the tension
between the beat,
beat,
the increasing speed
of my pulse.

Your touch meets my touch,
fingers to fingers,
and I become a whirlpool
of impulse and reservation,
of passion and hesitation;
hope, and yet consternation.

Eyes to eyes,
and I am a villain in my own skin,
sick with disdain for myself, then.
But you are beautiful,
and I cannot look away.