What is this sweetness - strange, unbidden, grown,
A fevered ache that burrows to the bone.

I did not like you - no, I turned away,
Nor thought I'd crave the sound of what you'd say.

Twice has my heart been split, exposed, undone,
Twice have your hands held fast what I would shun.

Once I recoiled, and drove your warmth from me,
Now I would draw you close enough to breathe.

I feared that something living might take root,
And so I starved it, kept it deprived and mute.

Yet still you linger - constant, searing, near,
A quiet presence sharpening my fear.

For now I want beyond what I can name,
And feel it coil and kindle into flame.

And should it break, as all things break in time,
I'd choose the ruin - if I knew it mine.

Penned by my hand on Tisday, the 24th of Ivolnos, in the year 18 AC.