My flower. To you I write.
It is not me I'm afraid that would break,
Dearly loved, I'm fearful the tremors left by my hands may create chasms.
Hesitant, the rings on the tip of my fingers may burn away your bare flesh and soul
[Leaving me with a red right hand & a few too many cigarettes to ignite]
My love,
It is not a mirror I'm afraid of.
I keep my head lowered
Not to stare too long. Scared,
[You may turn to a piece of art one too many French men failed to carve
Snakes may not slither through my skull but Medusa once lost her love as well]
My dear,
it is not me I'm afraid will never be held
I'm terrified my arms may never find its way around yours the day after.
I dare not embrace, For a hug too, can be the sign of parting
My sweet, sweet honey,
It is not that I'm afraid to love
I'm terrified my love will end up lonely
[That I may one day stand infront of the altar
Disappointed of who walks down]
Beloved, words are all I have,
And yet I'm anxious with every word I let escape
That one day my tree of phrases may run out of leaves.
And just in case winter comes.
I love you.
Yes.
I miss you.
Me too.
I do.
Darling oleander,
What I'm afraid of is you.
M. N. A
