I know from experience that you're a bad habit, and harder to break each time I pick you up.


We fit. It makes sense. The ways we've changed over time have only served to make us more suited to each other. There is a pull there, like the urge to stand as close as possible to the edge of a cliff.

I could fight it. Let you fade into the background of my social circle, until you're once again nothing more than a pleasant "What if?" to consider in a bemused daydream.

But I don't want to. I want the cliff, the precipice made windy from the breeze of your warm whisper in my ear. I want meandering conversations and sharp banter until the movement of your mouth moves me to move closer to you.

But what's the use of my wanting? For in your hands I am


the fiddle and the burning city

How can I see what went wrong

with smoke in my eyes?

How can I listen to my voice of reason

when the roar of the fire thunders in my ears?

What use my wits, my senses,

when you have left me stumbling, groping in this blaze?

The heat of you - even your absence!

sets me aflame.

You be Nero, darling, I'll be Rome.