She is a deprived little moth, lost in the night's nonchalance–spellbound from the flickering bursts and intensity of My soul's pyre.
She can't help it. She is propelled by instinct and desire.
The more I reveal, the closer she flutters. She craves My attention, she needs My illumination.
Trivial things really, what concerns Me now is My looming risk for myocardial inflammation.
I refuse to stroke flaccid relationships–it is too little, too late.
The neuropathy that numbed within has faded–a dangling limb, that will rejuvenate.