All I really want is to be touched. C a r e s s e d so that I know someone else is there.       
    Gaze upon me.    
  Braid my hair. 
I loathe the appearance, but the way you handle every strand with such delicacy and care is almost too much to resist. 
Is it too much for me to insist that we collide-         that we exist-    
  that we dance in the motion of hearts beating out of rhythm in rhythm together. 
Is it too much to believe that we are better together- 
    Sour apart with hearts that worship the tango and not a solo act.         
    P l e a s e.    
Do not act like this is new information that I wish to lock our hands, to twiddle thumbs in horrendous, obsessive, gooey formation. 
I know that going dutch has always been your preference, but the french have a way of speaking in tongues that seems to hold leverage.        
   ...