Too much
of any good thing hurts;
too much of the warmth of the sun on your arms
will first glow in your bones, caressing away the chill,
before blistering your fragile skin,
boiling your veins and charring your paper-thin
covering,
leaving melted muscle clinging to yellowed,
ashy bone.

I thought you were a good thing for me,
pulling me out of myself with you gentle hands
and soft brown eyes.
But it seems that the curve of your lips and the sweep
of your hair has charmed many a girl –
a fact of which, it seems, you are
all too aware.

Really,
was I ever more to you than an in-between –
entertainment found in limbo?
Or was my decay too obvious,
the smell of rot escaping from behind the glitter of my
pearl-white teeth?
Too much of you
has sunk my soul down to the souls of my feet,
and I crush it further everyday as I walk towards
you, brushing shoulders in the hall.
I don’t think I have the strength to pull it back up
again.