From the Start

I didn't want to speak to you,
or even acknowledge your existence.
I knew all about your kind,
and the surface scratches they left on my skin.

I can hardly blame the fools for trying,
but beneath my flesh lay steel;
their nails never sank deep.

I clung to my barricades,
until I heard you speak.
Your voice shattered my
reality like fine glass;

you created your own
illusions out of the shards
like a stained glass window.
The colours fit together like you and I did.

You were at once at home in my darkness,
like I belonged there in your light.
I am the moth drawn to the moon,
yet finds itself lit by a candle's flame.

I am angry still for that.
What was the purpose for all this?
Was it a misguided attempt at love?
Was my destruction just the point of this hunt?

Lastly, my Fox,
why do I expect an answer?
All that is left
is the startling quiet.