just a whisper. or a subtle lingering of fingers. or a glance that melts into a gaze that transcribes otherwise unintelligible feelings often subject to incessant questioning to something that cements sureness.
But I don't want the shit you see in movies. My homeboy cycnicism keeps me from falling for it. Not because I don't believe in love (we'll just go with that for now). Maybe, just maybe, in the darkest recesses of who I am I don't feel like I...wait...my vulnerability just tapped me on my shoulder and has forbade me from completing that sentence. Carrying on. I'll confess, I am reticent to believe that love from one human to another is truly altruistic. People have shown me it isn't. Whether or not they knew I was watching is another story. I have exercised a selfish kind of love to the one I would have taken a blade to the palm of my hand to ink in blood a sworn promise that I would never bring pain to that one heart and yet, I did. I am one of those people.
Now to what stirred this.
There are bits and pieces of me that believe the ever elusive does wish for me likely shrouded in darkness and never will this would-be lover proclaim to their nearest and dearest, and damn sure not from the nearest spire that a cautious amount of affection and desire and longing have had my heart and conglomerate of warm pieces at its epicenter. For long too long I have lied to myself that I understood all the reasons why it's always wishes or covert conversations that my longing is not at all lonely. But I don't understand. I don't dig it. Because I would most certainly express my compelling, compassionate, deep-seated affection and yes, dare I say, love for the ever elusive.
Then, I am only one. Two hands and arms and legs and one beating heart. I am one.
I am a line. My elusive seems to prefer segments. They can form any shape one may desire at a time. A triangle. Square. Whatever allows room for more friends.
One (is more than enough).
