feel the
warm, drowsy
fingertips,
lackadaisically running trails
down your every corner
as their eyes
attempt to catch up
to the tired,
deceivingly excited hands
exploring every inch of you
trying to discover
what's hidden inside you,
the magic of the being
you pack away behind
predictable masks
and colorful spectacles
in an attempt
to distract
or take away from
what you worry
may not be enough,
may not be what
they wanted;
so you shove
forced color schemes
to safeguard yourself
from anyone considering,
let alone caring
to unravel
the contents
of the windowless box
you call a body;
so you sit still,
dormant
as the people around you
allow themselves
to be found,
though none of them felt lost,
and as you resign yourself,
resting in
the bittersweet feeling
of knowing that
nobody had the opportunity
to run their fingers
down your outside,
and slowly,
methodically,
realize what hides
under all of those
eye-catching aesthetics,
yet secretly wishing
that somebody would pick you up,
out from behind the crowd,
unprovoked,
to try and see
what lies within you;
and dear,
something that may
bring upon
a smile,
is that I do
want to have you
open up
just for me;
because, even if
I have nothing else
under the tree
just know
that your presence
is the only gift
that I need