Wrong

She kissed me that night,
and held me tight.
Her hands - warm as the 4 o'clock sun,
cupped my cheeks, made my blood run.
We swayed to sweet hymns,
loved, in lights dim.

Two years ago,
love was but for others.
Now, I know not if anyone gets it.

"When, oh when, will this be over?" -
to myself, I repeatedly wonder.
At nights, I think of her.
In the day, I dream of her.
In saner moments, I write of her.

There is no pain now,
it has been quite long.
Yet, I know
that given the chance -
I'd get back with my love
in nothing but a heartbeat,
for this, well, this feels all wrong.

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