Only after my heart has been denounced into a fine dust and I have to breathe deeply to vacuum what remains of the ashes back into my chest
Only after the worlds around me conspire to rip apart the ground from beneath whatever reality I lay claim and poison reason to fail and logic to become fantasy
Only after my lust confesses dangerous drought to control my senses to the point of aching over and over into your body, sucking dry your moisture to satisfy my own need
Only after I have succeeded in escaping with you, leaving speculation to investigate our rescue from all criticism that we are anything else but love, and that if you should leave me, utterly, in total abandonment, my virtues deemed a fearful shadow by awful circumstance that you cannot leave your life behind for a future with me, will I write about romance.