• Your deadly poetic fingertips run along my cracked porcelain skin,
    the last of my being shedding away; the portions of the dying, grey
    skin falling and fluttering away like autumn leaves.
    Every time my lost eyes get a glimpse of your merciless ones, I
    feel a warmth spreading through my torn body, instead of the panic
    I should be feeling. It lashes out and rebuilds what was destroyed,
    and what was dying. Spreading, it reaches your fingertips, moving
    into your cold veins. Your pale face returns to the flushed pink I
    remember. Your eyes turn to pure marbles of turquoise. They
    bore into my heart, and tell me what I've needed to hear for a
    long time:

    I love you.