Like the ichor of the gods dripping from your lips, these bottled, lonely, spirits course through my veins.

I am small, just a child with a soft voice, and brittle bones,
I keep to the darkness, only mysterious in my silence, stemming from the fear of my own voice.

You are the darkness in which I find comfort. You are fierce, steel, cold and cynical. Your voice is raspy and enticing, without a hint of remorse for the space it occupies.

And when he looks at me,
With those bottomless eyes of his,
Eyes that sear my soul, shatter the walls that remain and oust the sorrow within,
I am set free.

Flying with those that never died
Dancing with the sun that never set,
And singing with stars that have no voice,
I am free.

Free from the worldly chains that bind me,
Tethering me to thistles and thorns,
That bleed ichor and laugh pain,
I was free.

           Free like never before.
           *Free forever after.