If I could even get my heart to touch the tips of your hands, a graze would comfort its throbbing. My limbs go limp, knocking knees and falling down endless paths into the dark away from all I have ever known of you. The more I fall due to your cause, the farther distance grows when reaching you. Will you or would you ever reach out to me? Would your lips ever have chance to stroke onto my cheek like brushes on a canvas? My cheek is that canvas that needs beauty painted upon it, and your lips are the brushes that create masterpieces. I feel so vain when loving in lust.