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.

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