It’s awkward every time and when we're alone there's no where to hide it. Nervous tension. All the emotions laid out like junk at a flea market. Years of what if stacked high and deep, dust filling in the cracks. There are no price tags, the value can only be determined by the right someone wanting it. Bargain with me. Let me pretend I wouldn’t give it all just to feel your fingers brush mine in the exchange, just to know someone else has cataloged and revealed it in all it’s chips and faded colors as indefinably us and wanted it for keeps.
And your eyes do. See me. Or I imagine they do. I can hardly look at you full on. I’m afraid you’ll know you’re everything and it will scare you away. Afraid it’s the almost you really want. And there’s nothing almost about the way my skin doesn’t even touch yours as much as it is yours. I will be lost in you, have been lost in you and managing this half-assed broken wandering around without you anyway. How is it that you don’t claim what is yours and get to keep it anyway?
Even with all our clothes off and seemingly nothing left between us we missed something. Waited for something. Neither willing to push. I think I was supposed to. I think you must have needed or wanted a large gesture of faith. I still thought there might be a magical way that somehow it could be right and that we deserved that. That we could have it without stealing. Please don’t make me be wrong. Not always.
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