do not let my quirks make your skin crawl.
they may give you the shivers, the willies, the jitters —
if you can, call them out and liken them to other ticks that do not inspire such bitter chagrin.
do not let my body, this roughly-planted trough of tough perennials,
go cold to your touch.
do not let my voice, this grecian apothegm that begins and ends with O!,
do not let my intensity drive you to a lesser thing,
some thing that never intimidates and refuses to spark,
some sad flicker you must softly blow with thinly parted lips to encourage its roar;
do not let me burn you.
do not scorn my roving tongue
as it is an homage to the way we can stroll with ease from notion to notion
when we are talking in the comfort of our most zealous axes.
do not allow my eyes to turn to perfect glass, windows which you love me through
but go transparent once you begin to focus your sight beyond them.
do not let our humanity be overrun by this egoistic world,
the core of this tired city.
do not come up from behind me and present that as a transformation.
do not mistake me for angelic, or inanimate —
i am nothing but a bear whose instinct is self-preservation,
who wishes to watch the day peacefully with my muzzle ticked deep into the stream,
tipped down between the rocks and back up to glimpse the roseate glow of the sunset,
your indigo aura.
do not leave me alone here,
on this grassy hill among the soft-petaled poppies when the sun is about to set —
do not break me, not like that.