Afraid to Commit

Something mellow; and maybe intense; and she wrote magic;
And I read mystic; and we cry love: afraid to commit; and
Her tone: a soothing rain; and her color: a sandy pastel.
Every beat—a vignette; and every line—a quartet; but never

Four, my love; and only one, my love; for pain—is so
Conscious; and texture—so course; and still, we paint murals;
And fly kites; and jump waves; and curse winds, my love.
What shape and dance, my heart; and so opaque—a thought;

And we wrestle music: afraid to commit; and we nurture life;
Adrift the passion; and so purple—a cello soft; and such love—
To scratch and moan; and panic—my soul—a revelation.
Let us live, my love; and let us fly, my love; for our genre—a
Fire; and our genre—a temblor; and we die such grey; and we
Sketch a dream: afraid, my love.