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.