Tell me now. Humour me, my dear. In all your wickedly profound and dignified days, have you ever felt it burn between your thighs with such ardent insistency? Has it ached enough that the mere effort to even move causes you great pain? I often wonder. In what language shall we communicate, where words and brushes of thought make spines shatter like the sudden burst of broken glass. I remember one dark evening I kissed you against the mantel of our fireplace and like dripping wax you melted beneath me, my lips grazing your arm. I painted the blush in your cheek. Matchwork and candle lit fires licked my flesh. We were deep, carnal, and rich. I’ve tasted waters miles stretched and still I cannot get enough of you. Twisted little thing, do you know? The only tap shoes I am wearing now are those nailed to the floor. I’m concrete filled and I can’t move while you’re burning against my tongue. But god, wouldn’t you know, this dance is enough to shoot the moon and I’m swallowing every last eclipse against your lips, seeing the tenderest of stars.