a piece of a love poem

last July, you convinced me

to take your hands

(they looked as misguided as

mine) and

last August I learned

that it’s more plausible to

drink alone and

last September I realized

that words

are more fragile than

melted candle wax

and when I need to let go,

I have this tendency to hold on

and forget that

fire burns hot.

And sometimes sweetness

isn’t tangible

without scars.