I used to believe love was only for things that were yours. Somewhere between the shadow of my distant self and a sacrificial desire I found that love is to watch someone burn, and wish only that they were warm.

Two elements produced a reaction. You lived in the world as a concept to be held, but it never lasted long enough to grasp. I thought that if your imagination was not bound to duty, my execution would unearth some beauty.

So I brushed and scraped the granular fate from your delicate frame to find an untapped vein of grace and play, it longingly sought my enquiring brain.

I reached for a hand, that never came but persisted in the dark like a stumbling drunk, sunken and morose, evicted from the night to seek out untroubled repose. I needed rest from your splintered soul.

You went and did it, and proved me wrong, when you spoke those words, a siren song. I was reborn, rendered whole.

The mellifluous tone sweetened the world and it danced with colour and hue, until the words no longer rang true. The moment abated in its intense affect and the deafening truth onset.

The halo traded for a pencil skirt, a role for an hour, caffeine for the hurt. You detox, you trifle in the business of others. You know all their names, their weekends, their mothers. When you come home to roost, there’s order at your table, but the expression of passion remains quite unable.

A transient muse, a salient mirage, renders this piece of writing an ironic homage. I laid out for you a gift beyond recognition, and it required one too many quiet admissions.

Still I gave and that stands, in the court of self-courage, that love is a fire not to curtail, touch, nor encourage.

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