I think my problem is that I always imagine the end before I can appreciate the beginning. My mind is often preoccupied with pictures to burn before the shutter even clicks. Doubt and insecurity remain from those who have burned me before, striking matches at any chance of security there might be in your arms. The idea of willingly handing over the key to my soul to someone else haunts my heart, as I can barely untwist the lock that suffocates it in the first place. I see the light in you, and I think you’re going to be good for me — maybe that’s why I’m scared. You’ve got a face to call home, and I can already smell the fireplace burning inside; I can only pray that the light doesn’t sizzle out.