Each has — awake or no — a spirit dark
Of impish trouble that within him dwells
But in me that incendiary spark
To strife (though brief) inherently impels.
Can you — now knowing of my flaws — perceive
What lies within; the monster at my core?
Let not my transient vitriol deceive
But yet return, and try to love once more.
For though my inky heart pumps through my veins
An ichor made of loss and of regret,
Between us some connection still remains —
O lover, give up not upon me yet!
And colour — if our selves we can forget —
May yet revive our shrunken hearts of jet.