The Madness of Love

Spontaneous Combustion

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I was limited by your
lack of passion.
You spoke of love,
and dangled carrots.
You teased me
with fragments.
Always you held back.
You tormented me,
never answering,
never reaching
my innermost places.
You laughed at
the well of my need.
It combined
combustively
with my frustration,
until I held it
in the tips
of my fingers,
and closed it
within my palms.
And so you
felt my wrath.
And then . . .
I smiled.


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