Ringlets spring between my fingers,
I try to smooth them as a sigh slips out,
Sarcasm hangs heavy on my lip, but—
something else drips from yours
I try to meet your gaze but mine often strays
I can’t let my eyes give me away
My body will say what I cannot put into words
A poem can be written under those soft sounds,
Something more tangible and desperate, yet—
It is still more delicate than I could ever consciously pen.