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R.J.

Little Things

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Little Things

Little things—like the brief second

When your hand makes contact with mine,

Or the moment when you close your eyes

And I can freely, really, look at you—

Whisper into the cracks of my stone resolve.

And I find myself yielding

Inch by inch—turning seconds to minutes,

Waiting for the moment you’d open your eyes

Just to catch a glimpse of what they hide.

But.

The fear of the unknown blinds,

And I’d never know whether the little things

To you remain as little things,

The way they tower over my consciousness,

Or not.

Or not.

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