I'd bend rules for you; merge my morals and desires in a plate, tremors surfing down my spine, wishing I could choose the comfort of righteousness over the way your eyes flicker, sending stardust down your cheeks.
I'd set off forest fires, burn down whole cities, as I come on steadier and heavier into your home, to greet your fireplace with my embrace and watch the light I made play itself on the walls, as we consumed more than fire for a night.
Sometimes I wish you were definite. A constant, unwavering silhouette of a future I could run to, with certainty that after I make it to the end of the tunnel, you'd be there with your hands, reaching for me, telling me, that this is all there is to it; some people travel around cities under different names and swim deeper down trenches to find this but we are absolute, right now, right here.
I look at the mahogany and the crystals lining your table, as I think that we are perhaps, a crack in the roof of a house, that only allows sunlight and shields itself against snow.