this little lament...

I still feel your eyes on me

and I have goosebumps like you're really here
it's like you pressed your hand to the back of my neck
and its imprint is still there
- still warm and a little discolored...
kinda like my love for Him
- still warm but a little discolored.

I haven't been the same since
I saw you cross the street
my poles have switched and I'm attracting bits of you
and I wonder whether the sum of those bits will perhaps
amount to you
or whether they'll just start collecting dust
on the cramped top shelf of my heart
out of reach and
never amounting to anything more
than what this is now:
a warm discolored passed possibility
still fresh on my neck
still present in my mind
and very still in my heart.

I guess I can't expect to always get what I want...
so I'll happily take the bits.