Forgive me.
I can't help wanting to plant kisses on you always.
For all the scary things you've shown me about myself,
and how you've always managed to hold on to me afterwards.
With shaking shoulders and a tender tremble from my
nose to my toes.
And how you have loved them,
and all the places in between.
I want to kiss you always,
but it is so much more than that.
Lips alone are not enough to disclose the emotions behind them.
They are clumsy in motion, and falter, between speeches, and sleep-talking, and sometimes they plant themselves on your neck, or chest, or forehead, in an effort to say
"Forgive me.
I don't have the words to tell you that you are beautiful and wonderful and magical.
Forgive me,
because I don't know how to explain that you mean the world to me.
Forgive me because
I am so headstrong, I will never let myself need anyone,
but if there was ever a person for me to need
I swear that it is you."
And those lips will stumble in search of the perfect place to kiss, so as to tell you these things, until they find
yours.
Resting quietly below two soft blues shining out of your skull,
with all the aches of a lovely soul,
and when you kiss back,
all is forgiven.