His hands reach for mine.
They reach for a part of my soul
That I keep
Guarded,
Untouched.
He yearns for it,
And I for him.
Yet, I do not lust for his soul,
Like mine;
I ache for the concept
That is he.
For someone to see
The sunshine,
For someone to feel
The butterflies,
But all he sees is a problem
To be fixed.
All he hears is a panic
To be calmed.
All the same,
I am a catastrophe,
Searching for
A soul,
Untouched.

All the same,
I am a problem,
Looking to be heard,
Not hushed.