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She shines bright—
and I feel her fire,
its glow licking across the edges of my darker self.
In her light, the contrast of my shadows is sharper,
more defined—
as if she’s traced them with her fingertips,
making them known.

I try to shield her from the dark,
not knowing if it’s her innocence I protect
or my own reluctance to see her touched by it.
So young, but timeless,
like a poem written long before either of us existed,
yet still unfinished.

She longs for the whip in the bowl of my hand,
where control and tenderness rest together.
Whispers of desire
slip between us like smoke—
and what she offers me
isn’t just flesh,
but a tether.
A gift that carries my soul
through the long, empty days
until I can feel her fire again.