My love, forgive me for my temperature.
For tucking ice feet between your thighs at night
and stealing your slippers in the morning.
How could you understand? In you,
memories boil and bubble over.
Strangers become bright embers in your chest.
Even your ideas are infant flames.
Why would you steal what isn't yours?
Believe me, please: it's not that I am cold. I just
can't regulate myself—heat too hot,
cool too cool and can't warm up.
There is a fire deep inside me I can't trust.
Maybe when I'm wiser—until then,
maybe you could let me use you still
for boiling in.