Azaleas

Azaleas

She touched my face
The way she did azaleas.
Tenderly.
Hesitantly.

Her eyes told me

What her lips could not.

I backed away, slowly.

Her fingertips left my cheek
But her eyes held me
All the way.

All the way to the corner.

I did not look back.

Had I, perhaps things would be
Different.

I felt her gaze on me

The way azaleas feel
Spring rain
And the softest puff
Of a fleeting breeze.