When we were children, if things hurt us we would stop

Pricking fingers on roses, desperate to feel its softness, to smell it

We would be curious and we would get hurt and we would learn a lesson from that 

But as I've grown older

I've hurt myself further

I've clung to what we were as if I was gripping a rockface in a heavy storm

sometimes the storm wins

Everytime I ...

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you had knocked on my door that evening
with nature wrapped in plastic
you in your gorgeous suit
with your gorgeous eyes
but not the eyes that were mine

you spoke the words that your heart could only shout
and the pour of admiration coming out of your gorgeous eyes
was too much for me to take

(in my mirror I saw a stick 
an odd shape, not one hint of sun;
in your mirror you saw heave...

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