I fear writing you into myself,
for that I'll one day un-write you,
through being forced through your
passing day and the overwhelm of night.
You, who I want so badly to quicken
with me into a new shape: two souls
sprung to a new song, enveloping each
other; not a contortion, but an agreement.
I fear writing you into myself:
what part of you shall be unmade?
And of what of us shall be remade?
Will the hand be better played, and not staid,
through the two of us? Can love really
speak openly through us, and not
subdue us? And will Heaven shine
fondly down on us? No rain-tarnished rust?
I long the burn of your singe as you
melt into me, but I fear the burn
too strong, that you'll be chained to me:
we'd writhe storm-tossed on that steely
sea, and sooner or later, eventually,
one or the both of us would sink.
And down into that icy drink - but, no!
I would not have it! My love, I'd never have it so.