Yes please.

With an unsteady gait
and eyes cast
    downward,
my pace quickens
to a trot.
I've always been
bad at pacing,
too impulse driven, as if
the turning of screws
and the world had
anything to do with me.
In the blink of an eye
love disappears, then looms
close again, so close
I can taste its disparate grin. So
close I lick my lips in
anticipation
and taste its supple kiss.
Burning is both painful and invigorating
even in the throes of woe.