you’re the streetsign at the corner of intrigue and desire,
right next to melancholy hill,
perimetered in barbed wire.

you’re the bloom breaking through the chainlinked fence
crossing the border,
finally tired of the intense.

you’re the solar light when the 
sun don’t shine,
the lie in our eyes when we 
say we’re fine

you blur the lines between should and want.
a privilege for me, for others you daunt.
so fruitful now
but then, so gaunt.
but enter here, your debutante.