Ache

Like creeping vine reach I toward you, illumed by ghostly white
which radiates upon me from your countenance, the night.
The dark is cool and intimate, a haven for a pair,
but every time the wind changes, there's danger in the air:
Your words like swords disrupt the peace without a second thought
of what impression they might leave on entities which ought
to urge you put away those swords and pick them up for naught.

But there again you soften, vulnerable to a fault
and sweetly coax my love-thoughts, heretofore put to a halt.
These interjections blindly burn, enshrouded all in black
and call in question all the biting qualities I lack.
What draws you to me then, if I am too much in the sun?
When gentleness is off-putting, true problems have begun.
My pragmatism fails to placate when you've come undone.

These fleeting moments pass, but still sometimes I lie awake
and, thinking on your love, feel the most melancholy ache.