I hate the taste of caution in my mouth.

There is a road less traveled that I nibbled
into the nape of your neck like a cliche,
but the fictions I wrote with eskimo kisses
can't recall the dead space she created.

Sometimes, I want to apologize for my innate hyperbole
when I see your inability to understand my caustic nature
shooting through your corneas until color deficiency
destroys your technicolor dreams.

Last night I found myself wanting to swear by
the sparkle in your star-struck irises
that reflected fervent hope so desperately
my pupils shrunk instinctively in fear,

but I am learning slowly how to let you hold me
while your trembling digits cautiously wander
the lining of my broken soul as if it was the first time
you learned how to trust.