It's an infectious intimacy only you can provide.
It's a wondrous worry- constantly on my mind.
I've a fickle fear I can't get rid of,
A taunting temper that I brandish on my skin.
A wilting wound born out of a sin.

Its a vexatious vase of hope that I repair,
Picking pieces of ceramic out of the air,
I crassly clutch at the glue,
Sparingly spreading it over every space.
Filling the cracks with pictures of your face.