you were full of cliches,
like the light in your eyes
and the warmth of your grip.
and of all things,
i couldn't get over the scrape of stubble
when you kissed my cheek
and the feel of your fingers in my hair
when you held me closer to you.

it's an infatuation, and a blind one at that
but my fears don't lie in a tender feeling.
it's a fear that my words to you were lost
in the light of your eyes
and the grin on your lips
and the scrape of stubble
on my cheek,
on my temple,
on my forehead.

how can a tender touch
melt a cynic when they know
that the feeling will never be reciprocated?