If I could run,
Like I did when I was a child,
I suppose I would already be gone.

And if this barely beating heart was not
Already blackened like moonless night,
I suppose I would still be named fool.

And if fire was forgiven,
Perhaps it would have burnt that house
To the ground, killing hope.

Then again, maybe it is true what they
Say about the burn becoming addictive,
Maybe that is why I still dare at love.