Maybe
Conflicted with his mental illnesses and a need for romance.
Maybe I'm not what you wanted.
I understand the vast lonliness between the spaces of fingertips and palms. It is a cruel exposure to the oxygen that fuels the fire in our eyes.
How can someone feel secure without that needed embrace?
I want your hands tracing down my skin, like water droplets on glass. Your breath on my neck, your lips on mine.
The static in my mind holds up this plexiglass curtain.
My mind is just fine until you hit the pothole. I don't know how to fill them in. Though others could help, I find myself viciously guarding them. Perhaps without them, I'd have to forego the isolation; have to face what I made in the mirror.
I've rewritten this twenty times and I know because I used both of my hands twice.
The last two were just to end up at perfection; that shining double digit divisible by ten. I get distracted by the sequences and forget your ocean blue eyes and sandy blonde hair, like you blew in from the coast.
Maybe I'm not what you wanted.