Like wine, this delerium, it burns in my chest and causes
My head to spin; this frustration, too much to bear.
How dare she want for anything but me?
How dare she crave for anything but my presence,
When day and night, and night and day, I want for her,
And crave for her!

In the day, I watch her there, in my menageries,
In my gardens, where she roams the paths
I used to trample on,
Like some lost butterfly from a sparrow's snare,
From rose to rose, making friends with the snails,
And the spiders, and all the wretched things
Less wretched than myself.
Yes, those she embraces as part of her world, and they have
Provided her with nothing. Nothing!
While I remain without her, staring within.

And when night falls, and I share my table,
Dressed in all the splendor I have to offer her--
It is not much, I am so horrid--
She is treated better than any stuffed and powdered princess I had ever courted idly
In all my days.
But ah, of course it does not matter to her how rare and fine
Those opals are, trembling about her delicate and tender throat. Oh,
Her throat, the color of delicious cream, the kind I used to dip my fingers
Into without guilt from the baker's eats, with no care of his effort to make them Beautiful, and put upon my tongue to swallow without taking care
To even relish the taste. If only I had relished that cream, the way I now crave to
Relish her in the cockles of my awful heart.

If only I could treat her gently; if I had not traded hands with that of wolves,
I could sink my fingers into those silken tresses, and perhaps she would like that.

Why won't she look at me? Her doe-brown eyes, they will gaze with love upon the roast,
The bread, the butter knife, the dripping globs of wax upon the linen tablecloth,
As the wick burns down, my time running ever shorter--does she realize?
Time is something I do not have! I cannot wait for her to muddle, to ponder,
To come to a conclusion that she may love me--
Anything in the room is more endearing to look upon than me,
But nothing in the room is more endearing to me than her.

The silence however...the silence in her precious throat.
The pause in her doe brown eyes, it drives me to delerium,
To somewhere higher than hope--as tonight, my question,
Impatient and but reluctant,
Bears no answer.

For how dare she want for anything but me?
How dare she crave for anything but my presence,
When day and night, and night and day, I want for her,
And crave for her!

To say anything but "No, Beast, no."