playing with matches; running with scissors
I thought, although I wasn’t sure of love,
I knew what it was not. But now I lack
that sureness—what have I been dreaming of
these seven months, if not of love? I lack
the power to say. I wouldn’t want from you
the kind of love that’s sleeping front to back
and waking side by side. I’m overdue
for something less domestic, less pretend.
In years of playing house I never knew
the art of lighting fires. I would extend
to you at least the courtesy of truth.
I’d only ask of you to condescend
to teach me what I should have learned in youth.