Kissing fingers run down my skin.
I am over sensitive, and even unintentional touches can wrack me with shivers. I take the hand that feeds me, and raise it to my lips. Wishing to tell it how I feel.
Instead I realize I am awake, and the hand just a dream. For me the longing stares, telling me I’ve put too much hope into fleeting moments.
I reach around my darkened room, looking for something to comfort me. Something to stave off the disappointment.
Nothing.
Sleep won’t return, and neither will the bliss of believing that someone I like could be attracted to me. It’s too much to ask for.
No one falls so quickly as I, or for such little encouragement. A glance of ice-blue eyes, a word in which I swear I can see his dreams. A snap connection fleeting and lost.
Would he kiss me if I leaned in close? If I pulled him aside, just out of view, and asked him a question. Standing a bit closer then necessary, looking him full in the face. Telling him -- with my rapt attention -- that what he says means something to me. Could I kiss him?
I doubt it.
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