I want you to know
one thing.

You know how this is.
When the touch of my fingertips
glance your decadent lips.
It urges within me an impatient surge.
The ardent flower that blooms at night,
under stars that shine harder to breathe the seductive aroma.
The galaxy shrinks, as to ensure its reach within the celestial skies,
forgetting their physics.

But if you dismember the limbs with which my love feels,
my love will retract within itself, like the turtle fearing the chaos outside its shell.
And if you deny me the reciprocity of my heart's most passionate story.
I will close the chapter and publish as is.

Yet, in my winter's tale, as frozen tears of sky lament their cause,
I shall give comfort from my fires.
Warming each breath of wind, as they gasp for substance.
My atmosphere will be enriched from my most enlightened flame.
And your ice will become my neccesity, a most welcome oasis in the desert.

But if you fuel my flame, if my desires entwine with yours, spiraling with themselves intuitively,
the wildfires would capture intensity in its most primal form.
My love becomes a slave to your divinity, a temple to your goddess,
wading through blasphemy, accomplishing rapture.