***
your name falls effortlessly off my lips.
i could stay like this forever,
in praises, affirmations, conversation.
your fingers graze the outskirts of my frame.
you are restlessness in idle,
in need of purpose, movement, externality.
this is love, isn't it?
this is what love feels likes?
where are you? "are you listening?"
"i'm on my way." of course.
"are you too busy?" "did you see my text?"
"unfortunately." not yet.
what do you need? "what does that mean?"
"i don't know." i don't know.
i don't know,
i don't know,
i don't know.
i do not know if i can hear myself utter another syllable relative to you.
i cannot stay like this forever,
to be misunderstood, insecure, wary.
you do not know if the touch of my skin feels the same as you once remembered.
you need a different kind of attentiveness,
to be propelled, challenged, accountable for.
this is love; it is.
it just is not the right kind.
— we fell into a pattern of mundane continuity; i would have preferred passionate dissonance over complacent coexistence.
