Sometimes I catch myself staring at your eyes,
or the way your mouth moves when you speak,
or how you talk with your hands when you’re telling a story,
And I hope that soon your eyes will meet mine as they do,
and you’ll smile that contagious smile,
and maybe our hands will accidentally touch next time I walk next to you.
But every time I see your eyes,
hear your voice,
or feel your warmth,
I forget his just a little more.
And when he tells me he misses my eyes,
and my warmth,
I feel guilty.