Love—what a cruel, magnificent burden.
Like a man dragging his chains,
I walk toward you, knowing full well
the rust will eat through my flesh.

I do not love you kindly.
I love you as a starving beast loves its last meal,
as a dying man clings to the memory of light.
You are neither salvation nor ruin,
yet I tremble before you as if you were both.

What is love if not suffering?
A wound we press against our ribs,
a fever that shatters reason,
a prayer muttered in the dark
to a God who does not answer.

And still, I love.
Because without this pain,
what else is left of me?