I do not want a love that settles.

You can keep your whispered
flimsy promises for another day,
another lover, someone who accepts
a dream that collects dust,
but not me.

I do not want sweet silence,
muted devotion–
I want to burn it.
I want a love fueled by fire.

One where our skin glows fluorescent orange,
where the touch of our lips
sets the midnight sky aflame.
And I want to dance with you on rooftops
stepping lightly to avoid falling through the ceiling
but not caring if we did anyway, if we ended up
mangled and bruised on the hardwood floor
below our feet, limbs hanging from the chandeliers
and crashing down with all of the crystals–
we can be an explosion, a freak accident,
two broken casualties of blood and glory
but I wouldn’t care if we were, at least
we would be making music.

I want a love to scream at the top of my lungs!
Desecrate your perfect altars,
torch the confidential journal entries
and mumbled prayers.
Because I want to turn you into a rock song–
blast it with windows down
knowing all of the bad words by heart
like a teenager running away from home,
like a rebel yell, like an unforgivable sin,
I want to sing you until my lungs burst.

I want to play that stupid song, that
electric rooftop music, twirling with you
like our lives depend on it.

Because maybe they do.

I want a love that sings
but only if you
are the one I am singing for.

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