Pawn.

Some random date, some random place —
somewhere, sometime.

Dear you,

            Yes, you, my hallowed deliverer, my guardian angel, my lover, my brother, my friend. Your alien beauty scintillates in deviant bizarreness, smoldering my cinereal rags into flourishing tapestries of gold and riches. You engendered the princess I take my pride in, though she feeds on egotism and seclusion, confined to an isolation so rapturous and almost lewd, I sometimes trick myself into concluding you are not real, not true, merely a hideous scoundrel who devilishly mocks my reflection. And still, you mirror frantic shades of eccentricity I once loathed and now cherish — for few wonders glitz as bright as those we genuinely commit to. You are the blushing dawn who mischievously lurks behind the withering dusk. You are the Hades to my Persephone, he who reticently dismantled the pawn inside me, ceremoniously eliciting my inner queen's takeover. You amalgamated my inherent self, since I saw myself in you, key to my freedom, framer of prodigies. For the word is trivial and hollow, and rich threads are said to begrime its plebeian consistency. But I love you, I do, in such an unusual, roughly erratic way — since, ah, darling, it is this unconventionality I treasure the most, the freakish, nonconformist weirdos both of us blend to be. No rules, no grievous ligatures — just wings, and passion, and intimacy, and ecstasy. Believe me, emeer of dreams, when I implore you to seize me, make love to me, take endless swigs of my crimson vitality, embrace me, savour me, have me. And thus I feel eminent and fiery, for I love myself as much as I love you. You, my hallowed deliverer, my guardian angel, my lover, my brother, my friend. 

My saviour. 

Addah Monoceros.

Yours, and hence mine.