Only His

He wants to ask you questions, so many fucking questions that he cannot, like What is it you see in your eyes--and what is it makes him shiver so, as blood lets from the wound you give with glimmer in your lips. Questions like what makes words stop coming, why not the cruel answers, why will he be shadowed in your skin this way, the way hornets are to children with fire.

Eat me inferno, eat me whole, eat me with a glass of water in case you are too weak to burn so: Cheers, darlin', the Irishman says with tears. Or is it the buzz glazing over what you tossed away after brief caress.

But you have not been caged so you may go. You may go. That he may not is only his to keep.