Riddles laced with affections And looks that linger too long. A letter written in uncertainty Still yet proclaims, let it consume thee: Love, o love, this fire of mine.
To be so well-kept betwixt arms and thighs alights the sweet pyre of hour-later sighs. Love is the ultimate of earthly consolations so says the sword in his ruminations Love, o love, a fire, divine.
So how, might I ask, as a bride of Glass Shall I fashion what love is to the mass? Find words for a torch - for the ember, the lust; the walking way, parting for the thrill of a thrust and love, o love, a fire along spine.
To wish to put to pen the way that I thought… Obsessively; incessantly; maddeningly hot… I know the words now, ‘neath all the falsehood: I’d sing about you a lot more than I should. Love, o love, a fire so fine.
Love writes itself to the point of suffocation. It lights and it dims, a scorch of sensation. No words for apologies, for they are only meat; Only lips, hands, tongue, the twin of heartbeats. Love, o love, a fire entwined.
By the sword, I mean the night. By the word, I mean the sigh. By the sword, I mean delight. For all of its raptures, I will gladly lie. Love, o love, this fire of mine.
