How I long
to
trust you.
How I long
to
touch you.
And let my fingers
wallow upon
your sensuous chest.
And lay
down
my weary head
upon your breast,
for warmth,
and for rest.
For rest.
How I long
to
rest.
How I long
to
rest.
But I cannot,
I cannot
yet.
There is something
about you,
something
sharp
and vindictive
that I am yet
to understand,
and to accept.
Something
venomous
to
the touch,
dark even,
villainous,
that
makes me
suspect
the very nature
of you,
and tests
my very faith in you.
My very faith.
And I cannot ignore this,
And I cannot forget.
I cannot
forget.
There is an addictive quality
to
being
around you,
to
looking
at you,
to
praying towards you,
that
I must
admit,
I
cannot resist,
I cannot
resist.
And although,
in time,
I have
learned
to conceal it well,
I
am,
in truth,
mesmerized
by the fire
of your hell.
And how often
I
am tempted
to break
out
of my shell
to embrace you.
To embrace you.