If i cut my wrist open
only the memory of love escapes
that heritage i have squandered on magicians,
knowledgable in the art of arranging words
to help me with my well planned strategy of self defeat,
the falling in love with an idea.
And that idea is: wait for it, wait for it…
That my love can be contained by a single other.
I’m the moth in love with your false light source
and you’re the skilled magician the way you appear
then disappear without a sound;
a trickster of the heart.
You know what?
You’re just another path
to show me where i limit the infinite in my mind.
But falling in love is an addiction
and I love that steady climb to the heights of my projection,
I forget how hard the fall is and I do it every time
and with you it was easy.
Come on, just tell me what i want to hear
so my illusions can be penetrated once more!
And you answered:
Are you ready?
i can see you’re pretty good at this,
promising me the summit
and leaving me stranded at base camp.
But, let me assure you, I’ve survived greater heart battles than this,
You’ll find my armour is constructed entirely from my lack of fear to love.
i’m more afraid of not being on fire
(and you are an excellent fire starter)
but an equally adept magician.