Did I shatter the window,
cutting myself on stained glass,
while trying to keep my footing,
on the way to your ass,
or was the door left ajar,
ready for scars,
no lock or handle,
light or candle,
just a shadow needing hands
to lead a dance in the dark,
silently fearing a fire will spark?

Did you give in to me,
or did I steal in cold blood?
Is the fire new,
or has it been here for months?
Both can be true,
as I am as gentle as I am rough,
in a world full of water,
it seems one ember is enough.

Like rain on sunny day,
like a smile on teeth of pain,
you see me more clearly
when your eyelids meet again.
When the door closes,
the fire will remain.
When the lights are out,
you’ll still feel the
warmth of the flame.

The scars will heal
on the surface of the skin
no matter how much water you pour,
you’ll feel it burning again,
the moment our eyes lock
and desire sets in,
the door will creak open
and you’ll invite me in.

Will I accept?
Will I deny?
I’m ready to be burned
just to feel alive.