Prick of Desire: Cupid’s Fall

He pierced himself.

Not duty.

Not command.

For me.

Blood.

Hot.

Spark.

Promise.

I felt it in the dark.

In breath against skin.

In fingers lingering

like fire knowing flame.

Love struck.

It pricked.

It burned.

It bled.

I trembled.

I opened.

He did not claim me.

He offered himself.

Every touch confession.

Every pause devotion.

Every sigh language.

When shadows came,

when trials demanded falter,

I remembered the spark.

The red proof.

He chose me first.

Love was act.

Pulse.

Fire made flesh.

And I said yes.

Again.

Again.

Again.