anticlimactic

I'd like to narrate how we stood under the night sky
embraced by the cold air and  the star light
but as pen glides through paper, ready to start,
words elude me, slip through my grasp.
I'd like to describe how I held your hand,
how I pulled you close, dared your lips, and grazed your arms,
but resisted the urge to give in to desire.
But that would disappoint every reader,
who, expecting action and romance,
sex, sweat and passion,
would be left feeling empty,
lacking progression,
crescendo,
or climax.
I can't put into words what made it feel so intense
what made my breathing go faster, 
what was I hoping would never end?
What we did and didn't do, the specifics do not matter
it's how I felt being with you, how it made everything better.