I know you won't, but don't dare say it.
I can tell.
When you're pushed up
against the small of my
back,
fingers wrapped around my neck,
breathing in my
smell.

every time i look at my hands

i am reminded

that i've forgotten what it feels like

to have your fingers

folded between mine.

Electricity doesn't fly off of your fingers and rip it's way into the bones of mine.
Your hands are worn and clammy, instead.
I don't feel a deeper meaning when you stare into my eyes like a cat before he pounces.
I feel a longing for understanding, and a desire for comfort and solace in the anonymity of a breath of fresh air; in a new, and perhaps forgettable face.
Trust to care for valuable possessions doesn't translate to "friend"-- especially in such a finite amount of time.
Yet, there's something in the tone of your chicken fried, velvet chocolate voice that tells me otherwise.
Perhaps I am a challenge; an intellectual conquest.
Never the matter, something is brewing,
and I want a sip.