The sun writes me letters of love
with ink made of the purest gold.
Though I wish not to admit the truth,
it is my heart she gently holds.

My fingers yearn to caress her body,
her touch deteriorates my concrete walls.
Years on years I've protected myself,
yet at her sight, I embrace the fall.

My world trembles when she's not near,
and now it breaks apart.
She slipped through my fingertips
and burned away my heart.