He raised his hand, hesitant, conflict raging in his eyes, and then swiftly brushed the length of my cheekbone with his fingertips. His skin was as icy as ever, but the trail his fingers left on my skin was alarmingly warm - like I'd been burned, but didn't feel the pain of it yet.
Bring on the shackles - I'm your prisoner
Yes, you are exactly my brand of heroin.
Surely it was a good way to die, in the place of someone else, someone I loved.
I thought about that for a minute - about what I wanted.
My first language, the true language of the soul spoken only on our planet of origin, had no word for betrayal or traitor. Or even loyalty- because without the opposite, the concept had no meaning.