Dry

Christmas came early.

My lips were dry today;  not chapped on the actual surface but on the sides of my mouth.  We had talked about this day and shared much information about each other (the data that I deemed fit for consumption) and I would even venture to say that things went smoothly the way I recall clasping my hands upon your triceps.  By far I would say you were the nicest and most patient, the most gentle, the most thoughtful.

Your hair was coarse and dry, waxed, the way most fingerlings of your generation tend to style their mane.  My usual magic did not work on you, and I fear I may have lost something this early.  My lips were dry today and I did not let you kiss me.  But you prodded and forged ahead through the drought of my soul, which to this day remains reticulated.

May you not forget your innocence.  May this warmth remain in between.