I project iron, steel
Yet as I've grown older
I have become more like gold
Soft, malleable
Not yet familiar with my vulnerability
I seem to consistently find a way to let you wound
My door is always open
Perhaps I should lock it shut
Become a hermit for a time
Until you find a way to be more gentle

although, my darling,
silence isn't really silence, is it?
silence is the sound of your breath
as it raises the hairs on my neck.
it's the heartbeat that keeps the time
to the soundtrack of this summer.
it's the soft ticking of the clock
as the hours drain away.
but, my dear,
there's no silence I'd rather spend
than with you.