Sacred

I've read the poems.

The ones someone else wrote about you.

I winced as I read the same cliches that I've written. Of waking up and kissing you. Of how soft your cheeks are. Of the motel rooms, the sleepy car rides, the gentle touches. Of you, asking to be chosen.

My heart sinks. I read these poems and I can't believe it wasn't my hands that wrote them.

I wonder if you'd once used those lines with them before repeating the words back to me. Overwhelming loneliness, feeling unwanted - Unchosen.

"No one ever chooses me"

Except they did choose you.

And I did.

I do.

Is it that no one chooses you? Or do you just choose not to see it?

Indulging in the melancholy and wrapped up in loneliness, finding comfort in the absence of something to lose. The responsibility of want is a heavy and precarious load.

It's at this moment that I realise you are untouchable.

I think about how you first read the poems through the cracks in your fingers. Tense and awkward. Guilty, maybe, that you didn't feel the same way. And I am afraid.

Our connection suddenly unravels. This was never about me and this was never about us.

No matter how deep or intense, my feelings are not unique.

I am not special.

This is not sacred.