My words alone. She's consumed by them. Every line every syllable. There's a tear in her heartbeat. All of a sudden she's feels at home. Clinging to this rugged vulnerability. That made me unforgettable. She toss and turn. She's knows she can't forget. A sigh like a howl. I guess she's just a she-wolf slowly hungrily aching for the fullness of the moon. To know I was never the big bad wolf. Just rogue to the core All along. Yet softness was the sun to me. It's what made me carry on. I'm a magician with words. Entirely not nonsense. My pen is the poison I choose. My weapon that a sultry form yearns. To only possessive again. Selfishly adore. Yet indulge in falling again and again. But my words alone. Sweet as wine. Yet the definition of mines is sanctuary to her. To others not as Devine. But every drop of ink is my heart. Without ink there's a drought. She would cry for beauty such as the rain. My words alone just a pinch of a ache. Without her feeling somehow. Yet I write for her to know a sweeter release. A gentle taste. That no one hardly gets to feast. But be her king yet wanted and loved like a peasant entirely. My words ain't a trick. They just unconditionally want and need to be her everything.