I’ve had my poise dipped by another wick
and your flicking gaze singes my threading
and I burn slow, spiral hazing up your nostrils
to your system of compounds dictating your
responses and I wait in trepidation for the short
spark in your eyes to fizzle before it strikes me
as an attempt to reignite a dull fuse that’s been
watered down by the waves of passionate chemical
reactions spontaneously combusting for reasons
different from you or I and cannot explain nor deny
the fact my wick for you won’t light