Barefoot Instalments Poem by M. A Heathcote

You came to me in barefoot instalments.
Like a moth to its hidden lair.
Each time you left, a little more powder
The right amount of disrepair.

Enough to miss each wanton second.
That didn't quite last long enough.
Enough that I'd later follow, beckoned
By hearts, ever-decreasing puffs.

You came to me in barefoot instalments.
Like a moth to its hidden lair.
Now I run to you. Through the streetlights,
Falling madly deep into your snare.