I see how you look at me.
I see your look
that always brushes me when we meet
how it wanders up my body
inch by inch
until it rests on my face.
I see the way you look at me and I think
I know what that means:
desire.
Craving.
Wild emotions in a heart
that can rarely be wild,
if ever,
the heart of a person that seems as if
in regards of softness,
a lack of impulsivity
could compete with a rabbit:
for flight reasons, tops,
but fully unfit for the hunt.
And it's good as it is.
I enjoy that look way too much,
enjoying the attention,
enjoying feeling more than welcome,
as if you and I,
in this room full of people,
share a secret that was never has been told,
never spoken aloud,
that maybe doesn't exist at all.
I enjoy this feeling to be special,
a fobidden fruit,
a jewel displayed on a velvet pillow,
ready to be grabbed but surrounded by alarm systems.
Look, don't touch,
or your world will collapse on you.
It is good as it is,
that you are reserved,
because I enjoy it too much to tempt you,
being the emboyment of a fantasy
that mustn't come true
and, in the next moment,
blinking innocently,
wallowing in my own guilt.
I am torn between monster and moralizer,
and I am sure that if you were not you
we'd already boarded
the night train to the brink,
but I dream. I am allowed to dream.
My thouhts are free,
and I will think, dream,
as long as my conscience lets me.
Dreaming of fingers running through my hair,
touching nose tips,
only half open eyes,
only quiet, muffled breaths,
of the dawn,
just standing on the ledge a few more minutes
staring down, fascinated by not seeing the bottom of the pit,
dropping a pebble down from time to time
to estimate how far down it goes
before you hit the ground.
And then taking a respectful step back,
one step, two steps,
to safety where no one has to catch me,
until the echo of the pebble fades away
and I can finally sigh with relief
and then pretend nothing ever happend,
and that I never saw that look of yours.
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