What I imagine you thought you’d find in me...(Isn’t there?)

Manages to tumble down a flight of stairs at a hint of your coming—or of a warm reception—and run directly to the window. There aren’t any doors in the home of my mind—and it jumps—seeing no other opportunity—from this floor—your footsteps in the hall, your lively gait, the death knell—falling freely into the traffic rushing down below. Things are always busy in this city. Cursed with uncanny resilience, it gets up, minor cuts and bruises the injuries, and throws a glance back at the window (wondering about you)—the pain of its thoughts more than that of the fall. Now, it runs into the city, weaving through traffic so deftly—away from your footsteps in the hall, your lively gait, the death knell—and floats freely with the highway’s current. When you melt through the wall, or break it open, or sweet-talk it into spreading for you, the house of my mind is silent and watchful, the closets overflowing with things you weren’t supposed to see. My terrified infatuation (choking itself with can’t-do-this and denial) runs away, breath heavy and labored, thinking (consumed by but always apart from you), UNSAFE! UNSAFE! while the rest of me (despite my logic and my will) wants to curl up inside you and let your beautiful talk swallow me whole.