This form of mine is wasted.
On constant false relations.
Hoping that my love can someday be reciprocated.
Am I less of man to admit that I get lonely.
My hands kept warm by the illuminated keyboard as I type out lines of poetry
Confessing a need for a deeper connection.
Sometimes I want my mind to be undressed instead of my khakis.
I promise that my compassion is easier to swallow.
I’m the type of man that wants to hold hands
While we stand

Inside of a planetarium laughing about inside jokes quietly to ourselves.
The smell of romance lingering in the air.

As the universe is explained to us by Morgan Freeman.

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