i don't know if its love or lust
(maybe a combination of the two)
but both halves of me finally agree
that they would be terribly
and perpetually incomplete
if our eyes fail to lock
if our fingers do not intertwine
if I do not follow the road
from your collarbone
up to brush the stray lock
off the side of your face
then end up comfortably at the small of your neck

it'd be a tragedy
of shakespearean proportions
for our lips to not have the pleasure of
getting acquainted
how stale the air is
when we do not share the same breath

it's a sickening thought
that the curve of your back
and my calloused hands
simultaneously exist in this point in time
but may never piece together
like a jigsaw puzzle
****** to incompletion


that the amber of your eyes
and the mahogany of mine
may never find their way to each other
i'd rather not have lived

at all