I handed you my hunger whole—
not lust, but ache inside the soul.
A reach for more than just the skin,
a prayer to let the real begin.
You stared like I’d demanded fire,
not just the warmth of small desire.
Each time I asked, you met my plea
with sighs that sounded tired of me.
Excuses came like quiet knives.
Too tired. Too sore. Our separate lives.
Until my wanting felt like shame—
a broken man, too soft to name.
And when you gave your body in,
it wasn’t love—it wore no skin.
Just silence wrapped in practiced touch,
as if I’d asked for far too much.
Your eyes were somewhere else, not here.
No heat. No joy. Just something near
resentment draped in hollow grace—
and me, still loving that blank face.
I never begged for you to burn.
Just to be seen. Just to return.
But what you gave me back was this:
a silence wrapped inside a kiss.