What could have been of us
if they were out of the picture
would your cheeks rest in the clusps
of my palms, would you rupture
a vein below my dry bottom lips?

These dry hands grasp for any sense,
my head wishes it was ever more dense,
this weary heart rushes aimless,
but even then, yearning is just so effortless

What could have been of us
if the weight of your words was gold
if I were just a little bit more bold,
prudent, even. Never my tongue hold,
would I know that reciprocate was an answer?