If you
know love like I know love when it is full and
ready—like the pulse knows the tip of the blade before
the cut—the blood rushing to greet its serrated edge.
You would know love like I have if you have seen the sunlight
in every possible gradation—if you can hear the
birdsong beyond the rudimentary call—if you can
distinguish between each cadence as it quivers through the
air. If you get so cold sometimes that it burns or the heat
gets so bad your teeth start to chatter—then you will
open up your arms and take this dark thing into the fold and
you will know love like I know love.
— Lang Leav,
Dark
Matter
