Back when you were a fascinating stranger,
Your lips, the way you held your head;
Your hesitating voice was lost on me.
I have learnt this mannerism, by now, but still
It thrills me just to see you speak to me.
These sights I’ve seen and dwelt in: however so,
The more I’ve seen the less I’ve felt that hold,
Not without love but less in fascination.
It’s held so close that somehow, you forgot.
I’m held, but not beholden: it’s funny, no?
Perhaps I’m just imagining that loss,
And being lost on you: I fear it, though.
I fear this is the second side of closer,
The lowered defence that welcomes, in its way,
By holding no resistance: and holding not.