our hands touched, so what? shall i idly drift back to you?

you’re new in my heart but taste known on my lips. somebody listens when i talk, somewhere else, and you show yourself, and you tell me my gentle utterings were heard to you on the leaves of the tree in your familial yard. you would go out and hover beneath its boughs, waiting for the dew to drop, and when the dew would drop, it would speak to you. you heard my voice for the first time and told me you knew it.

your lilting queries make of my manner a facsimile. i can not hope to be genuine in the presence of the striking revelation that is you. in my youth, i would burn for you. now, i am warm in wait for hope of you.

the mystique of an unresolved soliloquy leads to millions of implied crescendoes. arbitrary selections are meaningful when made by meaningful people. places in motion are stopped, and carved as to be homes.

i watch in the quiet, i see the parts you think nobody sees, and i see how you care for them.

i’m going to steal glances, and i’m going to hope you don’t notice. i’m going to hope you notice, and that you look back.