There is nothing as delicate
as a love with a dark past.

A born barbarian should not so much as touch it,
for fear of doing irreparable damage,
both to the love, and to themselves.
For though it is fully grown, the love is fragile,
bruised by a thought, broken by a breath,
and the resulting scar tissue runs deep.

And that is the love that I weep for most of all.
The love that has been injured,
walking around on tiptoes,
just waiting to be broken again...

...that is no way for a love to live.