I never know how to handle it. There's something about him that I cannot understand. Its his past, his years and years of vicarious experience, drifting into the darkness like a maddening ember dying as quickly as it was born. I cannot handle him sometimes. Its not like he's difficult; its not as if he chooses to battle me every moment he breathes. He doesn't even know he does it to me. I hide it well, as if I have complete control in everything I do.

It was in the darkness again that he killed me, twisting me from my false perceptions, leading me to the edge and teasing me with the danger. He killed me, not by pushing, but by holding, suddenly strong enough to turn me around, to face me, the scent of cloves and burning and cold filling my senses and refusing them freedom. In the darkness, with the moon hidden from the lights of a distant city, he embraced me, a strength so powerful that I died in his arms.

They talk about love as if it was perfection--the ultimate indulgence, and the sweetest sin. Its never that perfect. It twists your heart until it surrenders, it heats your body, and freezes your mind. I am in love with love, and I never know how to handle it.