95.

It’s so hard to be poetic
when my only obsession is so shameful
when, urgently, I long to burn it down
my own home, and yours, too

When your kindness, simple hands
can be misinterpreted
by an obsessive heart

When I know you – not at all
but I’ve known a sweetness like yours
and over, and over
taken it too far again

Given more than I’m getting, again

Is it exhaustion? It’s never love
for I have mine, and you’ve yours
so leave me to wonder
and soon enough, dear, burn out

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