He won't kiss me.

I won't kiss him.
I want something different out of this, this strangely unique creature that made the first move when I wasn't thinking about any move at all. It wasn't lechery, but something more profound and refined. I can't help but love his poetry.
"When you walked me out the light ran across your face, just across your eyes. It was startingly complimentary."

We were driving and my ex-boyfriend got brought up. For some reason, I thought about the first time we hung out alone.
I drove him home after a night of severe inebriation and he changed my radio presets so every station number was in order from lowest to highest. It was merely an innocent thought of how I came to date him.
And then I thought about how the day after I texted him explaining just how much I hated it because I kept pushing the wrong buttons. I texted him. I made the first move. I always do and I'm always bitter about it.
I brought it up that I had done so and he said he would have, but I was and am untrusting. If I meant anything... He was too slow.

I almost told this story. I almost gave the secret away, but then I realized he would then be obligated. And I know when he reads this and it finally happens I'll regret telling him 'I'm writing about you...,' because this will only be another way I beguiled the situation. There's really no hope now; I have acted first.

I should focus on me and love, or some sadistic aloof version, will find me when I'm not prepared, entangled in hectic organization, in overpowering ambition, in constant inconstance. Isn't that what they say? After dating many a gentlemen, every hand gets closer to what I want. He made it close, so very close, but I'm frightened that my brashness has done it in.

I will kiss him and be bitter. Or he will kiss me and the latter remains.