Love is made to devour

Love is a hunger, deep and wild, a fire that whispers soft, beguiled. It starts as warmth beneath the skin, then grows—a fever born within. I crave you more than breath or name, a sweetness sharp, a holy flame. To taste your soul, to drink your sigh, to melt where all our boundaries lie. I want your laughter on my tongue, your heartbeat in my own heart sung. Your thoughts, your scars, your quiet ache— I’d eat them all for hunger’s sake. But love devours what it adores, it gnaws through hearts and locks and doors. And if I take too much of you, I’ll find there’s nothing left to chew. So teach me, love, the tender art— to feast yet never tear apart. To taste, but never to consume, to bloom beside you—not assume. For love, when balanced, softly proves, it feeds, it burns— the hunger that loves.