I know you, love.
    Your face is painted in my memory like a dream so real it was hardly just a dream.
  The realms of dreamers often called upon to make point of the folly fools fancy.

No.

I know you, love.
    Your aching sits within my soul like the sunken ships sit on the bed, caressed by the mother that keeps them until they are nothing but dust and memory.
  I too know of your plans to rip soul from and soul and heart from heart.
        
        But fear not.

This soul of ice you shall not melt or crack and no impeachment of myself will you make.
No birdsong or whispered winds shall carry their secrets to my ears.
No roaring seas or thunderous storms shall find their way through these walls.
The sweet caress of my lovers’ hand upon my face will be nothing but fog and mist in my minds moor, upon which the joy at being found will turn to screams of…


I know you, love.
    For all your cries of war and rage, your armoury and artilleries, your batteries and bombs.
  Like a child, lost in the indecision of duty or desire. In this heart you shall find solace and spirit to ignite the tide of spring and loose the symphonies of birdsong.

I know you, love.
    Your image painted on my soul in a thousand colours still not bright enough. Seeping through my lovers’ cheek against mine while eyes burst with the promise that I have made the right choice.

I know you, love.
    So often mistaken and confused but for the few who know the true you.

I know you, love.

I do.