But when I landed in front of her cabin, the Cupid in me came out in full force. And did what Cupids sometimes do. Thinking up sonnets to recite. Ballads to sing. Love poems to carve into tree bark.
What in the actual hell?
This had to stop. But there seemed to be no stopping it.
Almost against my will Shakespeare started running through my mind—Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
That’s for amateurs,I couldn’t help but think.
Summer paled in comparison to Demi. She deserved something original. Something epic. Something that rhymed.
Absolutely not.
This was not happening. The Titans be damned before I let this go any further. Apparently, my divine half was going rogue. The “Ballad of the Locked-Hearted Goddess” started scripting itself—without my permission.
I fought.
I resisted.
I mentally shouted,Stop!
But the lines came anyway. To the tune of “Scarborough Fair,” no less. Because why not add medieval flair to my slow spiral into insanity?
In twilight’s hush where mortals dream,
She walks with grace, a shadowed gleam.
A heart once crowned in love’s domain,
Now wrapped in silk and silent pain.
Her laughter once could stir the skies,
Now guarded by a thousand ties.
Yet still the stars lean in to hear
The echo of a wish too near.
O goddess forged in flame and frost,
Who counts each heartbeat as a cost—
Let not your walls deny the spark
That waits beyond the veil and dark.
For even gods may kneel and fall,
And even stone may heed love’s call.
So let me sing, though she may flee—
The ballad of what could still be.
I didn’t want to admit it, but that was good.
Too good.
