Constellations Of The Mind

Wild Animals

When my palm lingered on your back I was so afraid that, maybe, I had crossed the line by caressing something so intricately scaled and fine; of perfect design.

Your eyes dilated, and I drew a blank.

I licked my lips, you looked down at your shoes.

I knew I should have given up on you.

But, then, the tips of your fingers touched my knee.

I looked up at you, and you started to speak.

To my head, not a single word reached, for I was smiling, bathing, basking, swimming, and twirling in your touch.

Maybe, I overthought it all.

Maybe, I tried too hard to analyze everything.

But I was happy, fond of the world of bliss I had conjured up in that moment.

But moments do pass, and slip from your grasp.

No matter the amount of time you chase them or how far you stretch to reach them, you will never get them back.

They are like leaves off of trees, flittering in the Autumn breeze, giggling as they go.

I must let you go.

I must get this idea out of my mind; the possibility that you could ever, even in secret, requite this almost instinctive yearning that I have for you.

But we are not wild animals; we are far more complex.

Love isn't shy, baby.

And that is how I know that you don't love me.

You were taken aback by my touch because you didn't expect it, not because you'd been waiting for it far too long.

We are not wild animals, but I wish that we were.

Then our souls and bodies and hearts would merge and pulse and blend together, and we would be an infinite example of true, beautiful love and affection.

Oh, I wish that we were wild animals.