You kiss the same way that I expect a father to kiss his child.
Tenderly, and with such hesitation that always made me wonder
exactly what it was about me, that made you recoil in horror
as I proclaimed my love to you, season after season,
as summer fell into fall,
and fall beckoned winter to kiss at the trees leaves,
and spring lapped at the frost bitten grass and provided
life to the ground in which we spent every Sunday morning
walking upon.

I often asked myself precisely what it was about me that you did not like.
Maybe it was the way I tucked my hair behind my ear,
or didn't even brush or care for my hair at all,
or the way I can never finish a book,
or finish any exams or tests,
or even a piece of writing I proclaim to be 'my best piece yet'.
Or maybe, it was the same thing about me which my father
protested to hate before he left.