My mother would have told you I came in the dead of winter, on the coldest night of the year, and hit like a storm, if she had remembered it.

But she hadn't.

Asleep for several more months before my heartbeat would wake her from her deep sleep, I was born screaming.

Overwhelmingly solitary they called us. But your voice sounded like raspberries and honey, you smelled like summertime and love, I couldn't tell the difference between the two anymore.

Our cousins in Asia tell us this kind of infatuation is unheard of, say I must be going mad. The Northern family say I need someone to keep me warm at night, and I knew it had to be you. Mother said I was a late bloomer, six years into my life until I could love you the right way, I was tired of destroying all the things I touched, with more claw then palm.

I would swim oceans for you, over the coldest currents, paw over paw until my body sand. I would eat a diet of creatures one' one thousandth my size for you, all year long if it meant making you mine. When I thought I couldn't have you, I waded, restlessly to my stone swaddled basin and slept for so long when I awoke I swore months had past.

I would shed every inch of skin, every single hair follicle, 9,677 per square inch, make myself naked, for you.

But you left. Almost as soon as you came. Like a thief in the night, far away for far too long. But you said you wern't the type to mate for life. But I've expanded my rage, a 60 mile radius around the length of my home, and I'm waiting for you.

You'll be mine again.