You think passion came
from some other bloom,
a shivering vine
calling out your name.

There is a difference
between rope and lace, love.

Maybe I cannot ignite you
the way that others can,
whether it's a matter of fire
not blazing bright enough
to illuminate your hidden cells.

Or maybe the words play a part,
but not everything you say is poetry,
your words cut much deeper
than a lovely skilled metre.

I'm still covered in riddles,
laced in your dark rhyme.

You think that passion emerged
from some other animal,
whispering those four letters
that resonate more than your name.

Over and over...

Mine.

But you cannot ever truly be claimed,
tamed into the arms enfolding you,
into a legacy of push and pull
from so many aching miles away.

There's a difference
between rope and lace, love.

Remember that some lights lie,
bind tighter than any mutual shimmer,
and I may not glow through you
with the searing heat of others.

Or maybe the illumination still reaches
like our bodies clasped so tightly,
no true beginning or end to our forms,
nails embedded into familiar flesh,
our fury inevitably expelled together.

Or maybe the language plays a part,
but not everything we say is poetry,
I'm still covered in riddles,
laced in your dark rhyme.

Over and over...

Mine.