Love is brightly blinding,
but you trust that the light
doesn't burn.
At first.
A first time becomes a second
of multiple reactions
teeming with satisfactions,
as you fall in and out
of rhythm
with yourself,
hoping to merge with another.
Some things don't mix well,
but you're drawn to the passion
like a moth to flame,
desperate to be burned
but fearing the pain.
Blinded...
Stumbling through words and actions,
saying what's repulsive or pleasing,
but never asking or meaning.
What are you feeling?
The heart beats you to a pulp
when faced with stagnation,
but the urge to protect it
hardens you.
But the flame always
melts away
that wax
you thought was iron-clad.
But the pain...
burning...
brightly...
blinding...
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