Like the ichor of the gods dripping from your lips, these bottled, lonely, spirits course through my veins.

I am small, just a child with a soft voice, and brittle bones,
I keep to the darkness, only mysterious in my silence, stemming from the fear of my own voice.

You are the darkness in which I find comfort. You are fierce, steel, cold and cynical. Your voice is raspy and enticing, without a hint of remorse for the space it occupies.