Everyone too afraid to fall first,
in case the other don’t catch.
Too afraid to be the only one in love,
So we’ll just let our feelings stray.
Want the rose but the petals may die,
And the scar of thorns will stay.
What happened to the love writers wrote about?
The intimacy of touching hands,
The scarlet glow with mention of their name.
The relief of catching their glimpse,
and the honour of being their only dance.
I would rather have this flame burn me forever,
than to regret the marks it left.
I’d happily jump into the well over and over,
than to stay on the drier end.
I’d wait months to get a reply for my letter,
than to have him text me back in seconds.
I’d rather love him in secret,
than to be his secret affair.