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...