And I shall choose. To have a mad obsession with you, for poets too need their pain. You are mine. I will be burned at the stake for loving you. That is true. There will be violence. Oppression. Noise. But it is friction that adds life to lovers. Like bad scratches on rich black leather, poetically destroyed. Let me then consider you as phantom. The beloved that haunts my depraved soul. The spirit that scares me in the dead of night. Tearing me from a nightmare sleep where I lost you to some devil, only to realize the devil was me, wholly unworthy of your hell.