In a fragile fashion,
he places my face in his hands,
careful not to disrupt
our naive plans.
He stares just long enough
in my eyes to incite a spark,
and fast averts his gaze...
...pressing our luck.
Our words are delicate,
like frozen flowers
laying nervous, in a fire,
soaking in a cautious cower.
Brittle bits of us leak
on our paths apart,
our stained willpower weak,
permanent in our hearts.
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