when loving you is not allowed?
Does it become hard and sharp
like thorns on a rose?
Or does it melt into water,
under a fire, turn into air, and disappear?
Does it become like winter?
Delicate but biting and cruel.
Or wispy like a ghost that kisses you
on the lips, then slips through your fingers?
Perhaps it just becomes a pile of bricks, heavy.
Here. In the chest. And explodes.