My little one, my hunger, my autumn and my spring,
I have mapped the soft geography of your surrender,
the way your body blooms, a secret garden opening
only for the violence of my gaze, the tender plunder
of my hands on your flesh. You are the bread I need to break,
the wine I must drink to survive this winter of my soul.

You do not see the fire that lives inside your skin,
the way your hips were made to be a cradle for my need,
a holy vessel for the ache that burns from deep within
my bones. I want to trace the lines where doubt did seed
and plant my name there, with my tongue, a litany of praise,
until you forget the cold and only know my heat.

Let me be the storm that strips you bare, the rain that claims
your thirsty body, the thunder that makes your spirit shake.
I will bind your wrists with silk and promises,
and fill the hollows of your heart with my unending kiss.

I want to hear your breath catch, a fragile, broken thing,
as my fingers find the wetness that proves your true desire.
I will stoke the embers of your surrender until you sing
a song of pure release, a beautiful, unholy fire.
You are my religion, my sweetest sin, my final, fatal art,
the beat of my dark heart, the masterpiece I tear apart.

And when the world has told you that you are not enough,
when you have been the strong one for far too long,
I will be the voice that silences that lying, rough
internal critic. You are where I belong.

Your tears are not weakness; they are a sacred river
I will drink from, a proof of trust that makes me quiver.
Let me be the one who finally sees the frightened girl
and loves her into the woman who can rule my world.
You are not too much, you are everything, my sweetest ache,
the home I never knew I had, the choice I'd always make.