The Uniqueness of lost.

When the tip of your lips curves over my finger,
I feel myself lingering in the presence of an angel.
Not one of darkness, but not one of purity.

One of negligence, and the ability to caress me with eyes.
I can feel your hushed lips brush out light goodbyes,
But not for long.

Never for too long.
I can hear your soft panting of delicate cries off in the distance,
Beckoning for me to come hither.
Is it such, that the parting of our lips, and the touching of our skin,
Are of small titter to those watching in the crowd?

Electricity shocks such feelings inside me as our flushed flesh connect.
I can feel the wave of emotion run through my insides, dropping into my stomach with a churning
sensation.
A contemplation,
Of my own is pushed backwards;
As am I.

Perhaps this is natural, perhaps it is expected.
To be watched so darkly by critical eyes,
That ceases to exist of their own entirety.

That they can no longer paint their own individuality, but instead tear
Those who have little left down.

Do they not see, that our flushed and tender lips,
Our interlaced fingers,
The murmur of my name across your lips, as well as yours to mine,
Is all just a façade as well?

Perhaps, we can deliver to them that no one can truly exist.
For we are all scared of what others think.
What they speak behind closed doors,
As well as do.

None of us can truly exist,
When we are all scared.
Scared to laugh,
Cower,
Stand up for,
And live to be ourselves.