Retribution of Self

I cannot love you.

I wish I could because
I do, but nothing could come
of what I would. I am devil-
bound, honor-bound to leave
this space between my
ribs empty, though there
you fit.

This space, this cave
I chiseled with hands
bare these twenty years;
but my Creatures have
scarred it, marred it, dug
scratches there then torched
whatever surface left my
delicate artwork. It is
blackened, I confess,
by my own direction.

No water drips, no algae lives.
Dry as desert bones.
Warm as numb fingers dipped
in the cold and, yet, unregistered
unfelt; my senses disowned.

You fit there, perhaps
could turn it all
right, bring back the wind and echoes
echoes long fled and fill in the holes,
make me seamless;
but there you fit,
and you wonder why the
Keep Out sign clutched
resolutely to my chest.