Masochism

You kiss me, and the spell in your eyes
tells me how simple death can be.
From your eyes I learned what words
autumn whispers in a leaf's ear.

What killer comes with poems and kisses
whose victim waits so eagerly at the door,
who kills a person, every time, just enough
that there's life left for the next?

You come as autumn, but without warmth,
so I'll stand stunned by the colour yellow;
you become my most masochistic dream
so I'll be mad about this pain.

It's turning into the only warmth in my world,
this flame of you that stayed with me;
tenderness is so far from your hands
that I miss being hurt.