I like to think
you could love me;
scars, bruises, and all.
Every notion of your being;
the charcoal that feeds this flame.
Pulsing. Radiant. Throwing heat from
thick cast iron walls— my heart:
Cellar-ridden, half concealed.
Juvenile- petty in nature.
Still, capable of love.
Of this, I am certain.
Regardless, I can
never offer the
love that you
deserve...