simmering pots
pots simmer as you return.
this time they do not burn,
in fact, they comfort my cold.
it's not a loss until you've sold,
and so i hold and keep you close,
trying not to overdose,
but perhaps i fall too quick,
always end up getting lovesick.
be my cure, my medicine;
you are something i have seen
solely in a dream at night.
i just wish to hold you tight
in my arms and feel it all.
pots that simmer tend to fall,
but this pot i'm sure i'll catch.
burning roses with a match.
©LukaKorba
With love,