Occasionally I trip over the shrapnel of a love concealed.
My haunted frontline. Incandescent devices lace the minefield.
I never dreamt that when I felt it, my heart would be my warhead.
But these three words are charged and ready to explode.
Tentative, long-grown, now well-prepared; free and easy truth in my head,
At peril on your barbed wire lips.
An uncomfortable, intimate swarm when I light this little fuse and leave wasps in your ears.
This is our morning. This is no shell-shock nuclear conflict.
No transgression, no short-range weapon.
There is no safe, chemical procedure, erasing impact, blurring damage.
It is uncomplicated, unravelled, and unwound; it is sunrise.