When I say love, a limpet is what I become snug and steadfast, holding on to our rug, threadbare now from years beneath the weight of devotion fantastical, yet liminal On a lagoon night like this: its warmth is cooling. I yearn for more. I am answered by your blazing ambience The strum of strings kindles me into putty, slowly at first. I lend my voice to your ember-plucked melody as it quickens, as charcoal yields itself to flame. We serenade until the acoustic guitar fades into ash After all, a duet is written for two We rise toward crescendo, each note knocking silence from its throne At times my voice trembles there is winter behind my ribs, stalking inward through the broken window, while the hearthglow flickers, loosening my grip ever so slowly At times yours remains steadfast, vaulting into a yodel a solar flare against a winter sky, too warm upon my cheeks, already wet with cascading tears The ballad comes to a close The rug lies cold upon the floor, where I no longer remain Love means letting you go. Love means a limpet I cease to be. Some shores carry us only so far, so we may learn which tide to follow next— for the betterment of us both