You would be smooth, but I feel sweat on your palms
and know how it is. Eyes dart with a hunter’s urgency,
fresh words fall honeyed from wet lips.
But I see those ragged edges,
false graces, and those speckled eyes,
imperfections that could one day be stars
if I kindle the distant flames.
Earn your prize: hunt my love
or else wait for another to fall
more easily,
and burn out half as brightly.
I’ll take you to the brink and you’ll burn
for a touch of my hand, see those stars
at the sound of a few soft words.
You’ll lose the false charm, hard edge,
and leave only the core exposed,
or else just cinders.
Only then will I decide:
Is this one to keep,
or must I hunt again?
tragicomicalwiththetruth 