The Other Side of the Hand

where to start where to start. should i start that i get lost staring into her? should i start that my mind stops working when i brush by her skin, let alone hold her? should i start that i break out into a stupid smile everytime she goes into my line of sight? no. let me start with the fact that i saw her smile while she stared at me. close. close to me. everything was perfect for one night. poets write for those kinds of nights when you secretly hide holding hands like little children under the table or behind each other; when you cant get your hands off each other. its those time when you hate yourself for waking up ending a dream about her because youre lucidly thinking of her.

the wait just got a whole lot better.