IT IS IN THE WAY YOU BRUSH MY HAND

 I hate that you hold my hand 

Instead of intertwining our fingers 

I hate that you peck me on the cheek

When you have my lips to devour 

I hate how tense your shoulders feels 

When I pretend to casually massage them 

I hate that our gazes never lock 

Every time I stare at you 

I've sensed how you hold your breath 

When I joke about intimacy 

I've sensed the rigidity your body curls into 

When I try to linger on for a hug 

I've not had a dream in a while 

And only your face showed up when I had one 

I want to believe I'm wrong 

I want to think that the feelings are unrequited 

But it's in the brushes you give my hand 

The silly, random nicknames you assign me 

The music you play for me when we're alone 

It's in the way you understand my silence 

Or the attention you pay to my excited ramblings 

It's in the random  messages you send me 

It's in your need to keep my jumpers

Or to scroll through my phone 

It's in the way you ask me what I think of you

So if this never amounts to anything 

If our fears override the intensity of our emotions 

And our prides stubbornly stand in the way 

I will be content knowing that 

Yours is the purest form of love I ever knew