You told me you were afraid of love,
because it too closely resembled fire,
and you learned young not to play with matches.
You always keep a level head
and measure your words carefully,
testing the shape of them,
the weight of them,
the space they leave behind.
You are careful in your statements,
and your movements,
leaving no room for misinterpretation
…except for when you get tired,
and use me to help carry your lapse in demeanour
but always act like nothing happened.
You steer clear of passion
for in the pyrotechnics department,
love’s got nothing on this bad boy,
makes me wonder how we were ever friends…
maybe.. just maybe,
you like to light matches when momma’s not looking.
and watch the way the flames dance
maybe..
you’re a little bit self-destructive,
and you found out you’d ignite like 100-year old poetry books
So you never hold my hand,
because the friction between our fingers would light us up like pine trees who have lived their whole lives in the middle of a drought.
there is no doubt about that.
so you told me you don’t love me.
…except for when you’re tired,
and you let our fingers smoulder.
