Some say that love is an ardent thing;
That its sentiments,
When elucidated by words
Or art
Or something physical,
Are afire in their altruisms, but I
Know love as something fading.
But it seems different with you.
I am over-zealous,
Unconvincing,
Perhaps unenticing,
But I will not lay,
Dismantled in my existence,
And let the gaps between my fingers
Be filled with air,
And they will wait to be inundated
By your gnarled hands.

And though your touch could
Set me afire in a most illustrious way,
*I will not open myself up this way again.