She is to me
Like fire to frostbitten fingertips.
I cherish the silver sliver
Of her sweet, tempered knife
Invading a dull, grey life.
My stone,
Fragmented over planes
I knew naught existed.

All the while, I cannot share
This secret spell
She has mistakenly casted over me.

As I am the cloth close to her heart,
Weepless and waiting-
For her to draw me
Towards the flame of her lips.
I will never tell her this:

I am a thousand pieces.