Synaptic Retreat

He thinks I love him. He thinks so.
He says it, says it all the time.
Says it enough for one two three, a whole heaping of cozy
So it must be true, right?
While I, I say nothing
Lips move, brush ear, neck, flesh, but no sound escapes
Waves his hand, magic spell, as if that makes it so
I, scornful, want to rip that smile right off but when my nails touch...
finally say, if wishes were horses, beggars would ride.
Shakes his head, smiles so soft it's a caress, replies,
flesh tells me all I need to know. Horde your words. It's fine.
I cannot hold him tight enough.