Tread softly upon my love-scarred heart,
And make no mistake…
I don't trust easily.
These walls were built to keep trespassers out,
And you can be sure
I hold a wary vigil as each one retreats,
Trailing off like smoke in the wind.
Don't mess with my mind,
I've played the game a time or two,
And I hold my cards close to the vest…
So, what you see is not necessarily what you get.
Whisper to me, do not plead nor cry, nor shout my name.
You need not curb my passion or my hunger,
Nor soothe my fever or pierce my spirit.
What I need is the cup of a quiet hand in mine,
The sleepy touch of warm breath
Against my cheek, late and deep into the night,
And the gentle brush of deliberate fingertips
Across this tarnished, suit-of-armored soul.

* de - may 2002