The Exquisite Burn of Hoping But Not Having

this is not about lust

this is about blood
beating in my fingertips
as I do not reach for you

and you are
awarding me the exquisite
burn of hoping, but
not having

you are not required to trust me

because you have already given
too much away
to too many
leeches

and I cannot imagine
asking
anything more of you

this is not about taking

this is about writing your stories
into songs
about the bruises on your hands
and on your heart

and about your resilience, because

we are not unhappy endings
we are not warning signs
we are not cautionary tales

we are a thousand blazing funeral pyres
banishing shadows and turning death into warmth

we are the shattered glass
and we are the mosaic

so this is not
about lust

this is about showing you
the you that I see

and showing you the me
that I am sketching to life
with cracks and smudges
and golden arms for holding
and wholeness in my eyes

and you are not required to love me

and something new is blooming

and I can hope
without wanting
to have

(and all of this can be
 true
 at once)