Faith couldn’t have picked you better.
I am obsessed with
how my head fits
in the crook of your neck,
how my nose brushes on your skin,
and how soft it feels agains my lips.
‘What are we?’ you ask,
‘Do we have to be anything yet?’
I speak, in fear that you might say
‘Yes, we do’,
because all I want to think about
is the softness of your skin,
and the comfort of your embrace,
and the sweetness of your words,
We don’t have to be
more than that
but you nod your head,
we don’t have to be something,
not for now.
And how unused I am,
to this tenderness,
I might just fall,