Men are the only beings whose tongues can lie;
in love the wild creatures do not waver.

This strange truth cowering in metaphor,
this rabid fog that bites the heels of sleep.
But gods lie too: in the beds of hapless men,
seeking solace in the tether and the flesh—
bound like haikus, like sonnets, slavish beasts
of reticent masters. You, as a storm:
stillness, brash overtures, and rain—always rain.
Petrichor: the gods' anaphrodisiac,
their penultimate defense—after fear
and flame and flood. The last is just a pen.

And these gods, these insufferable creatures—
what truths they pen, they do not pen for you.

A/N: "petrichor" is the smell after rain