What If

For years now
like a chronic illness,
Months will pass in peace
only to be swamped by storms of dreams, thoughts,
Memories of nothings.
Sweet symptoms cloud my mind's eye,
Roil through my gut like warm oil
tighten my face,
make my heart race.

What makes this sickness
so delicious?
The forbidden flavor of "Thou shalt not covet..."?
Why do I believe the delicate fruit of your kiss each day
Would keep all manner of my ills at bay?
Is it merely lust's silken fang
that pricks my heart to pang?
Or is there truth in these visions
of a life spent sailing on starlit summer seas...

Oh what if...
you weren't...
What if...
we had...
What if...
We did anyway.

And I'm afraid
of what if...
Afraid reality would prove a pale mimicry of fantasy
awash in waves of remorse dulled by slicks of guilt.
Afraid we would be cast adrift
with no recourse left
but to destroy others' lives
To save our own.

So afraid, it perhaps is better not to know.

Thus thinking, I staunch the fascinating flame
sometimes a mere spark
often a raging wildfire
always consuming every tinder of thought
for a moment, or a month.
My mind raises a shining blade of righteousness.
My heart wearily concedes,
subsides to her pyre a subdued ember,
never ash.