Little love

I fall in love just a little bit, even though I said I wouldn't do that anymore. I can't help noticing his quiet dignity. His kindness. His subtle humour and, forced to stand so close in such a cramped space there is the flesh as well, constantly brushing against mine. I try to love without lust but there is always lust. So lust, then, and just a little love, or quite a lot of love, acutally, and there is this melancholy brew for me to drink down, slowly, on a day drawn out. We say goodbye and barely glance at each other and my heart breaks just a little for those few people I have loved and had no language to explain the way I feel for them. Slow sad love, like a dance in time to the monotonous drone of the daily grind. Everything in it's right place except this little fragment of misplaced emotion that I have picked up like lint and curled into my hand with no place to rest it.