I wasn’t worth it.

You weren’t ready.

Though my hands itched to fidget,

Though your eyes fought to look down.

Perhaps it was because you were foreign,

Perhaps it was that I dreaded unfamiliarity.

You knew I wasn’t worth it,

I knew you weren’t ready.

We yearned, that we also knew.

We were painfully aware,

Of our sweating palms,

Our dilating pupils,

Our catch of contact,

Our observing eyes.

We were aware of our pain.

I was aware of your pain for your unfamiliarity.

You were aware of my pain of unfamiliarity.

We closed our mouths, too afraid and cowardly.

I’m not sure if I saw your awfully red lips again.

But, I must be accepting now.

I must be accepting of our youth.

And mistakes.

I remember your fading face,

Everytime I hear a lie;

“Farewell, my almost lover.”