Right now, I am feeling conflicted. It’s nearly like being convicted. But the heart tells the tale of not guarding quite well and it seems the wound is self-inflicted.

There are words that I love from his lips. How difficult the scale is to tip. And the way that he sighs when I look in his eyes and he places his hand on my hip.

Moving forward’s a chore in itself. Not quite sure I want to reach that shelf. Says the glint in his glance, ‘C’mon, take a chance,’ and this weathered exterior melts.

A fence was there yesterday, I am sure. And I know a cold shoulder’s the cure. Yet the honest he gives and the truth that he lives, says perhaps his affection is pure.

So, *sigh*, I still sit here conflicted. The fog of his scent hasn’t lifted. I close my eyes tight and hope for the light, that will show me how this land has shifted.