And the allowed existence of my love for you
now a naked flame between my hands,
burns like a candle bearing down too quickly
on the centre, wick ashing away
and even when I don't show you
anything other than the creation of a smile
I am melting, pooling thick and incessant
by the doubled heat of your heart calling my name,
as I try to convince myself to stifle in waxen layers
the unavoidable incessance of my truetone response.

If I vacillate too quickly for your eyes to accustom
and seem to dilate from shadowed deeptruths
to shining admittances the next day,
then I am sorry now and all of forever,
whether it be left to us or not...

And if I could only tell you the shinings
that give light and reason to my days
as easily as my eyes reveal I love you;
no matter what my words at the moment might be.

What will there be to burn but our own skin love,
when we run out of candles?