thirty twenty five

I am guilty of the worst kind of innocence

The sort of misguided bliss 

that hidden papers warn of 

on pages that nobody ever reads.

I am on thin ice today

in the sun the heat is rising 

melting the shaky slick ground

that keeps me from soaking through and through

All this is my fault

(if you want to look at it like that)

I hold onto this naive candle flicker of love 

for you, still, even today

while the wind blows the dust over the city

and the fireflies sleep waiting for the dusk

and i will do all these so-called crimes tomorrow 

since I cannot stop what I refuse to believe is wrong,

when it comes to you.